


The Sky's Gonna Hurt When It Falls

by Morimaitar, Reagy_Jay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - Heathers Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bisexual Dick Grayson, Bullying, Consensual Underage Sex, DCU Big Bang 2020, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dubious Morality, Gay Jason Todd, Gun Violence, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jason Todd is Bad at Feelings, Jason Todd is Not Okay, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Slurs, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, Underage Drinking, violence in schools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reagy_Jay/pseuds/Reagy_Jay
Summary: All Dick Grayson ever wanted to make Gotham High School a better place. So when queen bee Catalina invites him to be part of the most powerful and ruthless clique in school, he jumps at the chance to accept her invitation—after all, it's easy to change the system when you're the one making the rules.Things get complicated after the arrival of the dangerous new kid, JT, who urges Dick to bite the bullet and abandon high school politics before it's too late. But Dick can't help but wonder if JT has another plan for the bullet...AKA Heathers but it's Jaydick
Relationships: Barbara Gordon & Dick Grayson, Catalina Flores & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 46
Kudos: 66
Collections: DCU Big Bang 2020





	1. Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw _Heathers: The Musical_ and it was over for me. Thank you to Reg for the **amazing** art (seriously, it's so good), and to Epi, Llama, Ico, and Crow for being my cheerleaders. You are very much appreciated! Extra thanks to Luci for running the DCU Big Bang 2020. 
> 
> See the end note for the lowdown on who is who. Don't ask me why they're called the Heathers when they're names aren't all Heather. I don't know either. 
> 
> **WARNING**  
>  If you've seen the movie and/or musical ( ~~fuck the tv show~~ ), you know how this goes. Like both works, themes of violence, suicide, homophobia, and bullying are present throughout. Situations of dubious consent and threats of non-con are mentioned but not in detail.

_ September 4, 1989 _

_ Dear Diary,  _ Dick writes. Then he pauses, tapping his pen against the paper and wishing he could erase ink. But the words are out there now, thick and slanted in his messy hand, and it feels  _ wrong  _ to ruin his new notebook by crossing out lines or ripping out the page. Like a bad omen. And maybe he doesn’t need luck, but hey. It wouldn’t hurt. 

_ I believe I’m a good person. You know, I think that there’s good in everyone. But here we are! First day of senior year!  _

Down the hall, a locker slams shut. No, something slams against the locker. There’s a sharp, confused yelp. A cackle.  _ “Freak!”  _ someone hisses, and then a whole crowd is laughing. From his place on the stairwell, Dick can make out purple hair and a dark black sweatshirt running towards him. Rachel Roth. They were friends in middle school, and then— 

She’s clutching her books against her chest, staring at the floor as if she wants to light it on fire. Laughter follows her footsteps. As soon as her feet touch the stairs her eyes flicker up and find Dick standing there. 

“Hey,” he says, smiling and waving to show that they’re not all jerks. 

“What are you looking at?” 

He shrugs, spinning his pen between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m just saying hello.” 

“Yeah,” she mutters, brushing past him to continue up the stairwell. “That’s what  _ they _ were doing too.”

Right. They  _ were  _ friends. But he can’t blame her, not really, not after all the shit their classmates put her through. Put them  _ both _ through. Not everyone can take it like he can. 

Looking back down at his notebook—diary? journal?—Dick takes a deep breath and picks up where he left off. 

_ Sometimes I look around at these kids that I’ve known all my life and I ask myself: what happened?  _

A trio of students push past him. “…is such a  _ slut!”  _ one of them is whispering, and the others giggle. 

Dick blinks, trying to find his train of thought, but it seems to have followed the trio down the hall. Through the cacophony of lunch period, only the last two words seem to make any sense.  _ What happened? What happened? What happened?  _

A locker slams. Two voices, at once:  _ “Retard!”  _

Someone is crying.

Someone is whooping. 

_ “Homo!”  _

_ “…can’t stand that bitch.”  _

_ “…just die already…” _

A shout. A scream. A laugh. 

_ “…Kane is such a dyke, you know?”  _

Dick slams his notebook closed and shoves it in his backpack. Without looking up (rule #1 of high school: don’t make eye contact), he walks quickly down the stairs and makes his way toward the cafeteria. 

Nine more months. Then he can leave this mess behind him. Go off to college, find a life, be himself stupid hierarchies that put one person above the other. 

A person falls at his feet. Papers, everywhere. Dick stops in his tracks, staring down at the mess of red hair lying over the linoleum. Makes eye contact. And because he can’t follow his own goddamn rules, he asks, “Are you okay?” 

The person looks up at him. “Get away, nerd!” he hisses, and scrambles for his fallen papers.

It’s as if he’s been slapped across the face. Dick exhales softly, pushing aside the lurching frustration in his gut.  _ I’m trying to fucking help you!  _ he wants to scream, but it isn’t the time. It’s  _ never _ the time. 

Once seated in the cafeteria—at one of the nicer tables, by the windows—Dick tries again to write. The pen is cool between his thumb and forefinger, and seems to work its way across the page without his conscious input. 

_ But then again I still think that life can be beautiful. Maybe I’m just a sap, but I think there’s still a chance we could all get along. I mean, we changed back then, didn’t we?  _

Whenever Babs asks him why he keeps a journal, he always tells her it’s because he wants to remember the things that happen to him. A partial truth: when he’s older and working as an investigative journalist, he’ll look back at these days and laugh at what he overcame.  _ Look how far I’ve come, ha ha ha!  _

But then there’s the other reason, the one that not even Babs knows about. At the end of every fucking day—when he wants to punch the wall until his knuckles are bloodied, when he wants to scream at everyone and everything, when he remembers that however hard he tries he’ll never change anything—he  _ needs  _ to write. Write out his anger. His questions. His frustrations. Write out every time someone gave him a black eye, or called him a runt or loser or fag.

Somewhere in the distance, there is a growl. Was that his name? Or an insult? Does it matter? Dick keeps writing, or tries to, but he only sees the page, the lines, the trickle of black ink. 

And then something pushes his face down toward the table. Black. White. Stars. Laughter. A fresh pain blooms across his forehead. Dick’s hands fly to his face. Without looking he knows there will be a mark. 

_ Burn this dump to the ground burn it burn it burn it set it all ablaze— _

“Hey,” Babs says, pulling her wheelchair next to his seat at the table.

“Hey.”

Her finger hovers toward his forehead. “Did you hit your head?” 

Dick’s jaw clenches. “Long story,” he mutters, forcing himself to smile.  _ No big deal! I’m fine! _

“Oh. We’re still on for our movie on Friday?”

“As long as you bring the Jiffy Pop.”

“You know it. I’m thinking about renting  _ The Princess Bride  _ again.” 

Dick rolls his eyes, but grins all the same. The throbbing of his forehead has already gone away. “You and your happy endings,” he says. “Aren’t you sick—”

And suddenly water is pouring over Babs’ shirt, her lap. She sputters and blinks, holding her hands over her head as if protecting herself from a car crash. 

“Watch it,  _ cripple,”  _ says a voice dripping with something best described as malice. Behind her, Jack Napier is putting the cap back on his water bottle. Letterman, slicked-back hair, wicked smile. He really is a grade-A creep. “I mean, helloooo? Are your legs as ugly as your face?” 

Dick flies to his feet, his lip curled into a snarl. “Apologize.” 

Jack laughs. “Oh looky here! Little baby Dickie’s talking to me? Ha!” 

“What gives you the right to treat people that way?” 

“Ooh.” A palm shoves against his left shoulder blade, knocking with just enough force to make his knees buckle. Roman Sionis. Fucking snake. “Dickhead here talking about rights?”

“What a fag,” Jack spits. 

Dick flinches. “Get lost,” he snaps, but the two of them are already walking away. There’s nothing but his burning face and a dozen snickering voyeurs. Fuck that. He’s better than them, anyway. If only they knew. 

Rule #2 of high school: kindness is a weakness. 

He pulls off his overshirt and hands it to Babs. “Here,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“Call you after school?” 

Babs nods. Clutching his shirt and her backpack to her chest, she leaves quickly, disappearing through the cafeteria doors in only a second. 

In his notebook, Dick puts the tip of his pen against the paper but can’t find anything to write. What is there to say? None of this is new. There are no more things that can be said. No more observations to be made. Nothing to ask but  _ why why why why why?  _ And even that’s a dumb question, because he already knows the answer.

It’s because he’s  _ him.  _ If he were like the Heathers, this wouldn’t happen to him. They’re solid teflon—never bothered, never harassed. Just floating above it all, doing what they want, when they want. Fuck. What he wouldn’t give to be like them. 

For the rest of lunch, he stares out the window and imagines ivy-covered walls and French cafes. Himself settling in a dorm room. Meeting dorm mates. Being treated like a person. Like he  _ deserves. _

In chemistry, Dick is still picturing himself attending  _ lectures  _ when he hears the teacher calling his name. 

“Mr. Grayson?” 

He tears his eyes away from the spot of mold above the poster of the periodic table. “Yes?” 

_ “Ooh, he’s in trouble,”  _ someone whispers. 

Rolling his eyes, the teacher holds out a packet. “Will you deliver these to Principal Luthor’s office?” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Dick slips out of his seat and takes the packet. Looks like some kind of teaching plan. He waits for half a second longer, before he asks, “Hall pass?”

A few swipes of his teacher’s pen, and another slip of paper is in his hand. 

“Thanks,” Dick mutters, feeling eyeballs on the back of his neck.  _ Maybe if I smiled they’d do the same? No, no. That will just make it worse.  _

He leaves without looking back. It’s too late to change anything. 

The halls are peaceful without people. Though, to be fair, that could be said of anything. But there’s an overwhelming relief that comes with not watching the world fall apart around him. Just lockers. Ugly fluorescent lights. Posters screaming  _ welcome back  _ in Gotham High School colors. 

And also a voice.

“Grow up, Crystal. No one wears purple lipstick anymore.” 

Dick stills. He knows that voice.  _ Everyone  _ knows that voice. Catalina Flores: the almighty. Mythic bitch of Gotham High. 

“Sorry, Cat.” 

And that one too. Crystal Frost, runs the yearbook.

“Maybe you should ask your dad for a new makeup set?”

Harleen Quinn, head cheerleader. 

“Yeah, Harley. Maybe I should do that.” 

_ Shit,  _ Dick thinks as he rounds the corner. They’re all here. Clustered around Catalina’s locker, putting on makeup, acting like he doesn’t exist—because of course he doesn’t. The Heathers are  _ royalty.  _ According to high school politics, Dick Grayson—loser, queer, nerd, blowhard—is an entirely different species.

“Ah,” someone says. A new voice. Ms. Lance. “Catalina, Harley, and Crystal. Perhaps you’ve forgotten—you’re in school.” 

Pressing himself against the lockers, Dick pulls out his hall pass and begins to scribble.  _ Come on,  _ he thinks, writing as fast as he can.  _ I can do this. I can do this.  _

“Crystal thought someone stole her backpack,” Catalina replies coyly. She runs her fingers through her hair, tugs on her red scrunchie. “We’re  _ helping  _ her.”

Ms. Lance frowns. “Not without a hall pass, you’re not.” 

Dick tucks his pen back into his pocket. Walking over, he says, “Actually, Ms. Lance, all four of us are out on a hall pass. Yearbook committee.” 

“Oh?” She takes the slip from his hands, looks it over. “…I see you’re all listed. Hurry up and get where you’re going.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dick says. “Have a nice day.” 

Ms. Lance hums, waving them off as she deposits the slip into Harley’s hands. The moment she disappears, Catalina stares him down, head tilted like a predator’s. 

“Who are you?” she asks. It almost sounds like an accusation. 

“Dick Grayson. Hi.” 

“Well,  _ Dick,  _ this is an excellent forgery.” 

_ Hell.  _ “I can do more,” he says, giving her his most charming smile. 

“Oh?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you want in return?”

“Let me sit at your table. Just once. No talking necessary. If people think you tolerate me, then they’ll leave me alone, and we can all go our separate ways.”

All three of them laugh. Dick keeps his smile plastered on his face. One second. Two seconds.

“Before you answer,” he says, “keep in mind that I can also do report cards, permission slips, and absence notes. Anything you want, really.”

“Well,” Catalina murmurs. She steps forward, smirking, and tilts his head to one side. His whole body shudders at the touch. “For a greasy little nobody, you do have good bone structure.”

“And a symmetrical face,” adds Harley. “If I took a meat cleaver down the center of your skull, I’d have matching halves. That’s very important.”

Catalina laughs again. “Of course, you could have better posture, but I think this could work.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “So it’s a yes, then?”

“It’s more than that, idiot.” Catalina lets go of his face and motions for him to follow her. “Good clothes, a haircut, maybe some moisturizer—you could be beautiful, you know.”

Harley squeals. 

“Yay. A project,” Crystal says flatly. She fixes him with a look that freezes him in place. “Okay?”

_ Beautiful. _ “Hell yeah,” Dick replies. “Let’s do this.”

Rule #3 of high school: grab every chance you get and don’t let go. 

***

And all of a sudden he is standing in front of the school again. His hair is shorter and texturized, and his clothes are  _ nice  _ now, not just some shit he’s pulled from the bottom of his closet. A blue blazer—“For your eyes,” Catalina had purred—and slacks, Eastland shoes. He feels  _ good.  _ Different already. As untouchable as he was meant to be. 

Harley threads her arms around his elbow. “It’s sooo easy,” she says. 

“What is?” 

“Being  _ us,  _ obviously!” 

“Right.” Dick adjusts the collar of his blazer and grins. “How do I look?” 

“I don’t see a loser,” Crystal says. “Not anymore, at least.”

“Aw, thanks.”

She pops open a makeup mirror and draws a nail along the crease of her mouth. “Whatever.”

“Means a lot,” Dick continues, grinning. 

“Ugh.” Catalina appears over his shoulder and drags Harley off his arm. She looks him over, once, twice, her eyes starting at his hair and moving downward. Chest. Arms. Thighs. Shoes. “Roll your sleeves up,” she says, and walks toward the school.

“This is the part where we follow her,” Harley speak-whispers.

“Got it,” Dick speak-whispers back. He scans the crowds of students as they walk inside, half-looking for Babs, but mostly to see how it’s gonna turn out. Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile.

Waiting.

His heart is beating so quickly it might fall out of his mouth.  _ Just try to hurt me now,  _ he thinks. 

Waiting.

Some people notice him, raise their brows in surprise.

Waiting.

Dick pushes his hair back and lets it fall down again, framing his temples with dark, wavy locks. Why didn’t he get this haircut years ago? Maybe if he did, things would have been different. 

Waiting. 

“Who’s that with the Heathers?” someone whispers.

“Don’t know. He’s a total babe, though.” 

_ Right,  _ he thinks. Once he’s untouchable, he could do it. He could change the system. Maybe he could even be the hero of Gotham High. 

People are staring openly now, and for the first time he can remember it’s not with disdain. There’s no venom in how they look at him. Only questions, and then maybe admiration. Dick stands up taller, flashes a smile. His pulse has slowed, falling into an even, triumphant beat to which he matches his steps. Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile.

And then he’s face to face with Babs.

“Dick?” she asks, brow furrowed.

“Hey there.” 

“What did you do with your hair?”

He tosses it with a swing of his neck. “Do you like it?”

“You look like that guy from  _ Cutting Class _ .” 

“Really?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She crosses her arms over her chest and fixes him with a look. “You didn’t call me yesterday.”

_ Fuck.  _ “Shit. I meant to. Really. I was just busy,” Dick replies, pointing to his hair. “I mean, can you blame me?”

_ “Dick,”  _ Catalina hisses somewhere down the hall. 

Babs purses her lips, and then her eyes fall on the trio behind him. Her face softens with surprise. “Are you…are you hanging out with the Heathers?” she asks.

“Kinda.”

“The  _ Heathers?”  _

A sudden hand grabs his arm and yanks him back. Crystal. “Stop,” she says sharply. 

Dick looks back at Babs and gives her an apologetic shrug.  _ Talk to you later?  _ he mouths. 

But Babs doesn’t move. She only watches, silently, until people are passing between them and he can no longer see the glint of her dark green eyes. 

Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile.

Roman and Tony are looking like they want to throw up. But they don’t sneer or make filthy gestures. They don’t even glare. 

Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile.

Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile.

Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile. 

God, he feels  _ good.  _ He feels  _ powerful.  _ He feels  _ beautiful.  _

This school’s his fucking oyster. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **"Cast List"**  
>  Dick Grayson - Veronica Sawyer  
> Jason "JT" Todd - Jason "JD" Dean  
> Barbara Gordon - Martha Dunnstock  
> Catalina Flores - Heather Chandler  
> Crystal Frost - Heather Duke  
> Harleen Quinzel - Heather McNamara  
> Jack Napier - Ram Sweeney  
> Roman Sionis - Kurt Kelly


	2. Freeze Your Brain

_October 16, 1989_

His days are busy. _Busy_ busy. 

Before, Dick had all the time in the world to find some quiet corner to write: before school, during passing period, in the car ride home, after he was done with his homework, in bed. He would fill entire notebooks in the span of two weeks, label the spines and cover with the dates inside, and hide them in the box beneath his bed. The notebooks used to be some of the only things he took with him when social services came. They’d hand him a trash bag, tell him his foster family didn’t want him anymore, and he’d have five minutes to collect notebooks and clothes before he was carted off to the next shithole. By the time Bruce came around and gave him shelves upon shelves upon shelves, Dick had gotten so used to the routine that it could no longer be changed. Write, label, store. Rinse, repeat. 

Now his every waking moment revolves around the Heathers. Pre-school gossip. Passing-period confrontations (“Teaching people how to fly,” Catarina calls them). Lunchtime polls. After-school croquet. The only free time he has is in bed, and even then he’s too exhausted to do anything but lie down and stare at the ceiling. 

Well. There are also the moments where the Heathers are in the bathroom. Five minutes before school, five minutes during lunch, five minutes after school. Hair, make-up, cigarettes. 

During their lunchtime cigarettes, Dick leans against the lockers and scrambles to record his thoughts. 

_Dear Diary,_

_It’s been six weeks since I became friends with the Heathers. Well, “friends” isn’t exactly the right word. It’s more like the Heathers are people I work with and our job is to be “popular.” At any rate, I figure I just have to stick around for a few more weeks before this becomes permanent. “This” meaning the Untouchable Dick Grayson, obviously. Once that happens I’ll be free to help other people, too. Maybe it’s already happening. Today before school—_

“Hey,” Babs says. 

“Hey, Babs,” he replies, quickly shutting his notebook.

“Your hair looks good today.” 

“I’d like to think it looks good every day.” 

“Well.” She frowns, clutching her bag against her chest. “I guess if I saw you more I would notice.”

A long moment. Dick glances at the bathroom door, still closed. “Look,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry I flaked on our movie night on Saturday. I have a lot going on.”

“With the Heathers.”

“With the Heathers,” he repeats. 

“I see,” Babs says. 

Footsteps. Voices. The bathroom door flies open, slamming against the wall hard enough to leave a dent. “On we go, Dick,” Catalina says, already walking down the hall. She doesn’t even glance at Babs. 

“I’ll talk to you later?” Dick offers. 

Babs pulls her lips tight. It isn’t exactly a smile, but it isn’t _not_ a smile. “Will you?” she asks, but before Dick can answer Crystal is already dragging him away. 

He shakes her off outside the cafeteria. “Jesus, Crystal. What’s your damage?”

“Don’t blame me,” she says. “Blame Cat. She’s the one that wanted us to haul ass into the caf. Back me up, Harley.”

Harley twirls a lock of pink-tipped hair around her finger. “She’s right. Don’t you know what today is?”

“Fuck,” Dick mutters, following them into the cafeteria. Cat stops him in the entryway, tapping her pen against a clipboard. “Lunchtime poll, huh. What’s the question?”

“Yeah, Cat,” Harley says. “What’s the question?”

Catalina scoffs. “God damn Harley. You were with me in study hall when I thought of it. Such a pillowcase.”

“Oh. I…forgot.”

“No duh.”

“You know,” Dick says, “I was talking to someone—”

_“Someone,”_ Catalina laughs. “Jesus, Dick. Haven’t you outgrown Barbara _Gordo_ yet?”

His jaw clenches.

“Well, color me impressed. Come on, you and I—” She wraps her arm around his. “—are starting at the country club table. Crystal, Harley, you’re on the Famine Fund Stand.” 

“I just don’t understand why we can’t talk to other people,” Dick says, once it’s just the two of them. 

Catalina laughs again. “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Do I look like Mother Theresa? Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t mind talking to the fucking _Mathletes._ Anyway…” She trails off, polishing her smile as they approach the first table. “ _Ohmigod_ Pamela. Love your dress.”

Pamela’s smile looks more like a grimace. “Thanks Catalina. Just got it last night. Blew half my allowance.” 

“That’s pretty very. Now check this out. Gotham City is on fire. What’s the first thing you do?”

Dick rolls his eyes, knowing she can’t see him. Of all the activities with the Heathers, this one is his least favorite. It’s pointless. Just a chance for the middle crowd—JV jocks, lackeys, losers not quite _loser_ enough to pick on—to fawn over the Heathers and try to make an impression. If only they knew: nothing ever comes of it. 

“I’d break into the arboretum and save the endangered plants,” Pamela replies.

Well. At least some people have interesting answers. 

After the clipboard is filled, the four of them stand by their table—the _best_ one, the cleanest and the brightest and the one with the view of the football field—and listen to Catalina. 

“Anyway, I’ve got a paper of Jack Napier’s. I need you to forge a note in his handwriting, Dick. You’ll need something to write on—Harley, bend over.”

“But there’s a table—”

“I said, _bend over.”_

Dick grinaces, but pulls out a paper and pen and writes what Catalina dictates. 

_“Hey. I’ve been watching you and thinking about us in the old days. I’m real sorry for how I’ve been treating you, and want to try to be friends again. Will you come with me to Roman’s Homecoming party? Jack._ And put a smiley next to the signature. _”_

“What’s this for, anyway?” Dick mutters.

“You know how Jack used to be friends with Barbara Gordo?”

“Well, yeah. In _kindergarten.”_

“Perfect.” Catalina cranes her neck toward the rest of the cafeteria. “Hey Jack! Come here!” 

He says something to Roman—something gross, probably—then comes bounding over, showing off a grin that makes Dick want to punch his teeth in. 

Catalina gives him one of her cloying smiles. “Jack, be a sweetie and give this note to Barbara Gordo for me.”

Dick feels a lump grow in his throat. “What? No!”

Jack laughs. “Since when did you hang out with that gimp?”

“Don’t read it,” Catalina says. “She’s having an extra heavy flow and needed some advice from my gyno.”

_“Stop,”_ Dick hisses, before Jack gets away. “I can’t let you do this. She’s my… Come on, Catalina. You’re bigger than this.”

Catalina raises an eyebrow, dismissing Jack with the flick of her wrist. “Talk to you later, hon,” she says sweetly. Her face twists into a sneer the moment he is gone. “Are we gonna have a problem?” she hisses.

“No, but—”

“Why are you pulling my dick, huh? Do you _want_ me to slap your face off?” 

Dick’s face burns in a strange mix of shame and fury. _How_ dare _you?_ he wants to hiss, but his rational brain knows not to. This is his chance. He can’t fuck it up now. 

Catalina splays her nails out in front of her and prods at her cuticles. “Look, you can forget us. Go home and have your mommy fix you a snack. Or you could stay. Be hot. Smoke. Drink. Have all the girls you want.” Her eyes narrow as a smirk spreads over her face. “Or guys, if the rumors are true.” 

“I’m—”

“Jesus. I don’t give a shit. But no homo is getting _anywhere_ without my help. This place could be your candy store, darling.”

_God damn it. God fucking damn it._ “Fine,” Dick mutters, and sinks into his seat before his legs give out beneath him. For the rest of lunch period, he stares at the calluses on his fingers and wonders how he can still take it back.

As he leaves, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, pin-pricks that alert him to prying eyes. But when he searches for the observer, there is no one there. 

After school, he’s waiting for the Heathers to finish their makeup when he hears a voice.

“You shouldn’t have bowed down to the swatch dogs and diet coke heads. They’re gonna crush that girl.” 

Dick whips around. His breath makes a sudden exodus from his lungs. 

The voice is tall and broad, wearing a gunslinger coat and ripped jeans. His sea-green eyes stare through dark, messy bangs, but not at Dick. In his hand: a worn copy of _Pride and Prejudice._ At some point he licks his fingers, turns the page, and continues to read.

Only then does Dick realize he’s been staring. “I’m sorry,” he says. “What?”

“Look,” the guy says. “You’ve clearly got a soul. You just need to work a little harder to keep it clean. We’re all marked for evil.”

“You can’t just quote Baudelaire at me.”

The guy shrugs. He turns a page, keeps reading. 

“I didn’t catch your name,” Dick says. 

“I didn’t throw it.” 

“Smooth.”

“I try,” the guy replies flatly. 

Dick waits for him to say something else, but finds himself _watching_ instead. Watching the fluid motion of his eyes scanning the page. Watching his chest shudder with each breath. Watching his sharp jaw clench and unclench.

And then a shadow falls over his shoulder.

“Hey Dickhead,” Roman says. “What are you doing with this loser?”

“Go away, Roman.”

“Not a chance.” 

Another shadow descends upon them as Jack knocks the book from the guy’s hands. “Hey _sweetheart,”_ Jack says, already cackling, “what did your boyfriend say when you told him you were moving to Gotham City?”

The guy stares blankly.

“Are you dumb? He just asked you a question,” Roman sneers.

“Come on,” Dick tries.

Jack shrugs. “Hey Roman. Remind me—doesn’t this school have a ‘no fags allowed’ rule?”

“Sure does.”

“Seems to have an open-door policy for assholes, though,” the guy mutters.

Silence. The arm falls from Dick’s shoulders.

“What the fuck?” Roman demands. “Jack, hold his arms.”

_Fuck,_ Dick thinks, but he’s powerless to do anything about it. It’s something he’s seen a thousand times, this. Something he’s even felt once or twice. They hold someone down. Kick. Punch. Curse. Leave them black and blue and—

The guy fights back. 

_The guy fights back._

“Holy shit,” Dick whispers, and he’s not the only one. It’s a mantra that passes through the hall, rising above their heads toward the vents on the ceiling. 

_Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit._

The guy gets two punches in. Ducks a blow from Roman. Laughs.

_I shouldn’t be watching this,_ Dick thinks. It’s not who he is. And yet… 

This kid can _fight._

Like a front row seat to a train wreck, the view isn’t something he can turn away from. Even when Roman and Jack land punches, even when he’s on his knees being kicked in the face, the guy keeps fighting. He _smiles._ There’s blood plastered on his teeth and pouring from his nose, but he’s still smiling. Like he’s proud of fighting for himself. 

And god damn, he should be. 

***

Dick is still reeling when Catalina pulls her Porsche into the parking lot of a Seven Eleven. “Dick,” she says sharply. 

“Huh? What?”

“God,” Catalina laughs. When she stares at Crystal and Heather, they cackle on cue. “Drool much? You were practically throwing your panties at the new kid.” 

Dick sighs heavily to chase away the bitter remark on his tongue. “What do you want?” he asks. 

“We’re playing croquet at Crystal’s house,” Catalina says.

“Okay?”

“And we’re out of coke.”

“Okay?” he asks again. 

“So, go get coke.”

Another sigh. “Right,” Dick says, stepping out of the car. He’s only a few steps away from the door when he hears Catalina again.

“And corn nuts!”

He groans, pushing open the door with too much force. The bell screams. He waves apologetically at the cashier, who doesn’t even seem to notice. Whatever.

“Corn nuts,” he mutters, feeling the words out on his tongue. His eyes scan over potato chips, barbecue chips, Fritos. Top shelf: nothing. Middle shelf: there, to the side—

“You want a slurpee with that?”

Dick lets his hand fall. On the other side of the shelves, sea green eyes stare down at him. The skin around one of them is bruised and swollen. 

“No,” Dick says, feeling a smile stretch over his face. “But if you’re nice I’ll let you buy me a Big Gulp.”

The guy smirks. “That’s like going to Mickey D’s to order a salad. Slurpee is the signature dish of the house. Did you say cherry or lime?”

“I said Big Gulp. I’m Dick Grayson, by the way. Were you ever gonna tell me your name?”

“I’ll end the suspense. Jason Todd. JT for short.”

Dick licks his lips and withholds a smile. “That thing outside the caf today was pretty severe, _JT.”_

“The extreme always makes an impression,” he replies, shrugging. 

Dick wanders a little down the aisle, dragging a finger along the plastic bags. In his peripheries he sees JT following him like a shadow. “So,” he begins. “What brings a Baudelaire-quoting bad-ass like you to Gotham City?”

“What doesn’t?” JT replies.

“Fair. I’m still looking for an answer.”

JT shrugs. “My dad’s work. Or lack thereof.”

“Oh.”

“The old man likes to think of himself as a _free bird,”_ JT replies. 

Dick thinks about the long string of foster homes. Six years of them, before Bruce found him and made sure he’d go through high school with a home. “Well,” he says softly, “Everyone’s life has got static.”

Outside, someone is laying on the horn. He doesn’t have to look outside the window to see who it is. He knows.

“Example,” Dick continues, nodding his head toward the sound. “I don’t really like my friends.”

JT laughs. The sound of it makes Dick’s stomach clench. “I don’t like your friends either.”

“I’m just trying to make high school a better place.”

“You’re doing great, by the way,” JT says, tapping his black eye. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Suddenly there are no more shelves between them. They’re standing face to face, separated by nothing but air. “How about this,” JT says. “Ditch your friends. Hang here.”

“At the Seven-Eleven?” Dick laughs. “Swanky.”

“Is there a better place for a first date?” 

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Presumptuous,” he says, looking over his shoulder at the cashier. She still hasn’t noticed anything. The store is otherwise empty. They’re basically free. 

“Sue me.” JT grabs a Snickers from a nearby shelf and tosses it absent-mindedly between his hands. “Anyway, I love this place.”

“No offense, but why?”

“I’ve been through ten high schools,” JT says, walking over to the Slurpee machine. “We’re always moving, so I don’t bother learning about anyone or anything. But this—” He smacks one of the drink refrigerators. “This is always the same.” 

“Is it?” Dick asks. 

“Well, more or less. Cherry, or lime?” 

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He pours one and takes a long hit, smirking around the straw. After a moment, he winces. “Brain freeze.”

“Does your mom know you drink this shit?”

“Not anymore.”

“Shit.” Dick feels a sudden wave of recognition run through him. He remembers. He _remembers._ “I’m sorry.”

“Eh.” He takes another long sip. “I learned to pay rent. Build walls.”

“Build walls.”

JT taps his head. “In here. Sometimes you just gotta freeze it all, you know? Forget who you are. Forget your dad. Forget all the people you’ll never know because you’re always on the road.” Another long sip. “Fight the pain of living with the pain of drinking too much Slurpee.”

Dick chews on his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says again, but this time it comes out as a question.

“Don’t be. Every time that little voice starts talking, every time I want to—well, I just go for the brain freeze instead. Here.” He holds out the cup. “Try it.”

Dick stares at the cup for half a moment, then at the face of the person holding it out to him. God damn it. He grins, pulling the straw into his mouth while JT watches him. One mississippi. Two mississippi. Three. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he says, “I don’t see what the big deal—

Then it hits him. The tightness in his skull, that burning-freezing that darkens his sight and makes him clutch his temples. And they’re both laughing, doubled over, their faces mere inches from each other. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dick says, chasing the last of the laughter from his chest. 

“I know right?”

“That’s insane.”

_“Dick! Corn nuts!”_

Shit. He looks over to see Catalina standing in the entrance of the store. “I, uh, gotta go,” he says to JT.

“See you around?”

Dick grins. “Hope so,” he replies, and he really, _really_ means it.


	3. Dead Boy Walking

_October 28, 1989_

Catalina tells him to wear a floral shirt to Roman’s homecoming party. “Don’t button it up all the way,” she says. They’re talking over the phone, but Dick can _see_ her twirling the cord around her finger. Once, twice, three times. “I like to see a little skin.” 

“For sure,” Dick replies. 

“It’s real bomb these days, you know? I mean, yum.”

“For sure.”

“Uh huh. And get dolled up fast. Crystal’s here already—that bitch—so we're gonna motor over to your house ASAP. Comprende?” 

“For sure.”

Catalina lets out a sound of disgust. “Jesus, Dick. Say something else. You sound so ‘87,” she says, and the line goes dead.

Dick stares at the phone for half a second before setting it back down on the receiver slowly, intentionally. As a kid, he never dreamed of having his own personal _bedroom_ with his own personal _telephone,_ and he doesn’t want to break it because he couldn’t live up to Catalina’s standards. If that happened, he’d be going through a dozen phones a week. Maybe more. 

Not for the first time, or the hundredth, he reminds himself that he only has to make it a few more weeks with the Heathers. Then he can spin off on his own, be the Untouchable Dick Grayson without floundering beneath Catalina’s heel. But for now: floral shirt. 

He picks the one Harley told him to buy, a dark one that drips off his skin. Blue flowers spread across his shoulders, down his chest, over his navel. To accessorize: light slacks, faded sneakers, a belt, aviators. Ladies and gentlemen: Dick Grayson, the Popular. The Fuck’n A. The Untouchable. 

“Hair,” is the first thing Catalina says to him when he gets in the car.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, threading a lock around his finger. “It looks phat.” 

“It’s a _party,_ Dick. Not some underground freak show. You’ve been talking to that fag again, haven’t you? What’s his name? Jason something?”

“JT,” Crystal says. “He’s in my American History.” 

“Ugh. Gag me with a spoon. Harley, his hair.”

Dick grits his teeth as Harley leans over the seat and starts prodding his scalp. “What’s your damage, Catalina?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you call me a fag behind my back too?” 

She pulls a face. “Ew, no. You’re totally down, and he’s just a psycho.” 

“Total psycho,” Harley echoes, grinning wildly. 

“Besides, you’re only half-gay,” Crystal says, and sparks flare inside Dick’s chest. “Which is, like, tight if you wanna be a boy toy.” 

Harley stops messing with his hair. “Yeah, you’re boy toy material for sure. Top notch. We gonna take him to any college parties, Cat?” 

Catalina rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. Shut up.”

“Sorry, Cat.”

“Look,” Catalina says, turning around in the passenger seat to grin at Dick. Her smile could give him a cavity. “This is a _Roman Sionis_ party. Don’t fuck it up, got it?” 

If he speaks, he will shout. So he doesn’t. He nods instead, gripping his knees until his knuckles are bone white and the tips of his fingers are screaming for him. 

“Great,” Catalina drawls, and flips on the radio. Starship. Bowie. Midnight Oil. She settles on Gang Of Four, “Damaged Goods”. Quick notes of syncopated bass filter through the radio, washing away the heat on Dick’s face. The riff that follows is light and bouncing. One-and two-and, one-and two-and—

Harley is bouncing on the seat next to him, grinning from ear-to-ear, urging him to move with her. _Fun!_ she mouths, tugging on his arm. Left, right, left, right. Up front: Catalina takes a swig from a flask, passes it to Harley, passes it to him. 

It stings, but only for a moment. Dick wipes his mouth on his sleeve and puts on his best grin, pushing aside thoughts of Bruce, grades, _good behavior._ He’s Dick Grayson. He’s beautiful. He drinks and dances and goes to parties. 

Parties. _Parties._

The music doesn’t stop when the radio cuts off. What’s left is different music. Louder, heavier, pulsing music, rattling the car windows and shaking his teeth. Then the lights—red, pink, orange, red again—and the screaming, and the laughter. Only one house is raging, but the whole block glows like it's on fire. 

_Holy shit,_ Dick thinks, as he takes it in. He never could have—not in his wildest dreams—

Things like this don’t exist. Or rather, Dick didn’t think they did. This is some John Hughes shit. Dancing, grinding, swimming, cheering, smoking, drinking, clothes on, clothes off. Between the twisting bodies and the colorful haze of smoke and glass and fabric, he can hardly see anything. 

“Well?” Catalina says, pushing him through the thronging crowd. “Don’t just stand there like an airhead. Let’s have some _fun!”_

The liquor cabinet is wide open. Shots, cans, bottles, solo cups, things Dick can’t even name. Well. Things he can’t name _yet._

And then Roman is grinning down at them. “Throw your coats on the beds, girls,” he says, grinning wickedly as his arm snakes around Crystal’s waist. “And the rest of you too, if you want—” 

Crystal smacks him away. “Barf.”

“Suit yourself. You bring your party slippers?”

“Yeah.” Catalina tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Let’s party. You boys got X?” 

“Tony’s got it. Party up.” 

“Dick, you ever do X?” Harley asks. 

He snorts. “Ever since Phil Collins did that MTV drug commercial, I refuse everything.”

“Bo-oring!” She lets out a piercing cackle. “Don’t be a dweeb-o-rama.”

“Shots first,” Catalina says definitively, sashaying over to the table. “Listen up, Dick. It’s salt, then shot, then lime. Very important to get the order right.”

“Jesus, baby,” Roman says to her. He bares his teeth at Dick in a sort-of smile. “You’re still hanging out with this spazz?” 

Dick’s jaw clenches. “Eat shit, Roman.” 

“Ooh. You’re playing tough tonight, huh?” 

Catalina holds out her hand for Crystal to hand her a shot glass. “Not now, Roman. You can talk to me after I’ve had four of these.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Dick. Shot.” 

He swallows the spike of anger in his throat. _Cool Dick. Popular Dick._ “Sure, Cat.”

“Well, make it yourself. Teach a man to fish, you know?” 

Salt, shot, lime. The first one stings his throat and nose. The second one, not so much. A sharp bite, and then his torso is warm and vibrating. Salt, shot, lime. Salt, shot, lime.

Some preppy girl stops by his side and washes him pop a second—third? fourth?—lime in his mouth. “Hey, Dick. You’re looking good tonight,” she says, reaching too close to him to grab something he can’t see. 

He spits out the lime and grins. “Thanks babe.”

“Jello shot?” 

Hell. Why not. He downs it as easily as the first ones, shuddering as the cool gelatin slips down his throat. This one tastes better. Feels better. The girl giggles, and then the crowd sweeps her away. 

_What is even happening?_ Dick thinks. 

Dancing. Laughing. Hands on him. Hands off him. Catalina. Crystal. Harley. Outside, someone jumps into the pool with their clothes on. A screech. He’s pretty sure a couple are having sex in the bushes. Someone’s bra is hanging off a door handle. More shots. How many? Who knows. Who cares! This is _fun._

People are laughing, but not at him. He’s not alone. He’s _liked._ Someone starts playing “Poison”, and he screams his lungs out with Alice Cooper. Takes a hit off something Harley gives to him. Tequila. Was that a pill? Red. Pink. Yellow. Green. Smiles. Laughs. 

This is how things were meant to be. 

“Hey Rottweilers!” Roman’s voice. “What’s Gotham High gonna do to the Razorbacks at tomorrow’s game?” 

Everyone screams different things. _Kill them! Fuck them! Run them over! Whoo!_ And in the midst of them, different screaming. Startled? Angry? Dick looks around, rubbing his eyes as if that could possibly clear the fuzz in his brain. Where? Where? 

There. 

Roman’s arms are around Crystal, squeezing, groping. She’s pushing him back, hissing and spitting—“Quit it, jackass!”—but she’s small and he’s so—

The words fall from his mouth. “Yo, Roman, emergency,” Dick says, grabbing him by the arm. “I just saw some freshmen trying to sneak into the party.” 

Roman nearly drops Crystal. “Freshman?”

“Yeah. By the, uh, pool fence.”

“Fucking trash,” he hisses, and charges out of the room. As soon as he’s gone, Dick smiles as Crystal. 

“You good?”

Crystal adjusts the collar of her blazer. “I didn’t need your help,” she snaps, flipping him off. 

Dick laughs “Aw, thanks for the finger, Crystal, but I don’t need to vomit right now.”

“Ew.”

He salutes her as he saunters through the front door, feeling the beat move through his body as he navigates the crowd on the front lawn. Cool air. Mouth dry. Fingers tingling. God. It’s like he’s either moving too fast or in slow motion. Like a VCR. Pause. Fast forward. Pause. Play. Pause. Fast forward. 

Maybe he should have another shot? Or should he—

“Dick! There you are.”

“Cat,” he slurs, turning around. “Did you get—” 

Fuck. _Fuck._

Babs is smiling at him, but her eyes cast shy glances toward the house. “This is, um, exciting,” she says. 

“You actually came,” Dick says dumbly. 

“Jack asked me to.” 

_Shit shit shit shit shit._ He forgot. How could he have forgotten? He should have said something, warned her. What the fuck is _wrong_ with him? 

“I, uh…” 

“Where is he?” She looks over at the house, then back at him. “Can you help me get inside?”

Dick blinks, too numb to come up with an answer. _Say something. Say something. Say something._

Too late.

“Oh my _god,”_ Catalina laughs. She shoves herself between the two of them, one hip cocked to the side. Jack clings to her arm like he’s going to rip it off any second. His grin takes up half his face. “You actually showed up. This is priceless.” 

Babs casts a look at Dick: _what’s going on?_

Behind them, Harley giggles into her collar. “Look at her _outfit,”_ she whispers. 

Babs’ face goes red. “He invited me,” she said, pointing at Jack.

“Is that so?” Catalina leans into Jack until her lips are inches from his ear. “Jack, honey, did you invite this freak?” 

“What?” He laughs maniacally, showing off every one of his large teeth. “Jesus, Catty. I like a joke, but _this?”_

“There was a note,” Babs says, and Dick’s heart starts to break. 

Jack laughs again. “And I thought _I_ was crazy! Ha!” He doubles over, nearly howling. “Go fuck off before the rest of you is paralyzed.” 

“Stop,” Dick says, but it’s too quiet for anyone to hear. He can’t move. Can’t speak. The world is spinning, falling, crumbling—

“Oh, don’t be rude.” Catalina motions to Crystal, who gets behind Babs’ chair and starts to push her toward the house. “We need someone to break apart the Razorback’s mascot, after all. We didn’t get that piñata for nothing.” 

_No,_ Dick thinks, but his scream catches in his throat. He can only stumble after them, bracing himself against a fence, a bush, the door. 

“Hey everyone!” Catalina calls into the house. “Babara Gordon here is gonna do us a favor!” 

“Yeah!” Harley shrieks. “Let’s show this girl some _real_ Gotham High spirit!”

_No no no no no—_

Crystal pushes Babs into the house. Too hard. Someone throws a pillowcase over her head. Cheers. No. Jeers. Laugher. Mocking. Babs is screaming, Dick is breaking. _Move,_ he tells himself, but he can’t and he can’t and he—

is at Babs’ side, pulling the pillowcase off her head. Her face is stained with tears. “Babs,” he says softly. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” 

Indignant whispers through the room. They slide off his shoulders, fall to the ground. Babs can’t even speak; her mouth is open and her eyes are wide but nothing comes out, not even a breath. 

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

“Dang, Dick,” Catalina says, at last. “Didn’t know you had a soft spot for heifers.” 

And that’s all it takes. 

“What the _fuck_ is your damage? _”_ Dick yells. He bundles up the pillowcase and throws it hard as he can into her face. “You getting off on hurting people, huh?”

“Dick,” Babs begins quietly.

Head spinning. Room spinning. Hot. Pulsing. “Go home, Babs.”

“But—”

“I said, go home,” he says, letting his feet carry him toward Catalina. No more thinking, only rage. “This is bullshit.”

“You’re so uptight, Dick.” Catalina laughs. “Got a stick up your ass or something?”

_“Or something else?”_ someone whispers. 

That’s it. “You know what?” Dick says. “I’m done. I’m resigning my commission from the Lip Gloss Gestapo. Going back to civilian life. Fuck your games, Catalina.” 

Her eyes narrow. “What?”

“You heard me. Good. Bye.” 

He makes it all the way to the street before sharp nails dig into his skin, spin him around. The world topples. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Catalina snaps. 

“Don’t spin me, I’m not feeling well.”

“You’re a stupid bitch, you know that?” she says. Her hands are so tight around his skin, pulling, shaking. “Before you met me, you were nothing. Nothing! A bluebird. A Girl Scout Cookie.”

“Stop,” he mumbles. His jaw is trembling, his throat heaving. 

“You don’t get to be a nobody,” Catalina continues. “Come Monday, you’re an ex-somebody. Not even the losers will touch you now. Transfer to Washington. Transfer to Jefferson. No one at Gotham High’s gonna let you play their reindeer games.” 

_Don’t open your mouth. Don’t open your mouth. Don’t—_

Too late.

He leans over and heaves. Once, twice. Something hot rushes up his throat, falls from his mouth. His torso moves in waves. In the distance, a shriek. When it’s over, he wipes his mouth and stands to meet Catalina’s horrified expression. 

No one speaks. No one moves.

“You. Stupid. _Bitch!”_ Catalina shrieks. “I raised you up from nothing. And what’s my thanks? I get paid in puke!” 

“Lick it up, baby,” Dick snaps. “Lick. It. Up.”

Her lip curls into a sneer. “I know who I’m eating lunch with on Monday,” she says. “Do you?”

He pauses. The retort dies on his tongue. 

***

He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, but he needs to walk a little further. His stomach and pockets are empty. No change for a pay phone, not that he’d use one anyway. His limbs are undefined and uncontrolled, like strips of rubber. Head reeling. Vision blurred. Soul sold for a haircut and a good seat in the cafeteria. 

Bruce can’t see him like this. No one should see him like this. He’s a drunk, drugged-out kid with thirty hours until the rest of Gotham High knows what happened. 

_Maybe,_ he thinks, kicking a rock down the street, _maybe I deserve this._ Divine retribution, for what he did to Babs, for just standing there as Catalina tore down the school and claiming he was doing the right thing. And now Dick Grayson is nothing but a dead boy walking. 

Sighing, he hugs his chest even though he’s still too drunk to really feel the cold. The houses are smaller now, with peeling paint and chain-link fences. Laurel Street, the sign says. AKA Fucking Nowhere, Gotham. 

In other circumstances, he would have been worried. Drunk, lost, soulless. But hey. He’s a dead boy walking. Might as well enjoy the moment until Catalina cuts off his head and mounts it on the wall. 

_Dear Diary,_ he thinks bitterly. He pictures the words in his head, floating from left to right and disappearing in a cloud of black. _Killing Catalina would be like offing the Wicked Witch of the West. Or is it East? West! Fuck, I sound like a psycho. If I really wanted to help people, I guess I’d be kissing her ass and trying to get back to where I was. But tonight I just want to… I just want to… want to…_

“Fuck!” he yells, throwing a punch into a fence post. The wood peels the skin from his knuckles, sends a wave of pain toward his elbow. Dick pauses, watching beads of blood push through the skin and amalgamating into rubies. They shimmer in the light streaming from a nearby window. 

Dick’s eyes follow the light from his hand to the house next to him, and finds himself looking into a bedroom. Yellow light, sparse furniture. Add in three more beds, and it would look exactly like the rooms he grew up in. Circle of life, or some bullshit. 

A shadow passes in front of the glass. His breath catches in his throat.

This is JT’s house, JT’s room. Right here. With him. 

_Shit,_ Dick thinks. He could be doing something else. This is his last chance to do whatever the fuck he wants. He’s fucking free. 

And then his feet are carrying him to the window, and his hand is raised against the glass, and he’s tapping, and—is he really doing this?—he’s tapping, and tapping, and—

“Dick?” JT opens the window wider, until Dick can hike himself over the sill and stumble into the room. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Dick places a finger against his lips and grins. “Shhh,” he says. “I had to see you.”

“What’s going on?”

“Shut your mouth.”

Dick grabs the collar of JT’s shirt, and slams their lips together. Face hot. Lips searing. Heart pounding. _Yes,_ his mind screams, wrapping itself around the two of them. His heart pounds beneath his ribs, up his throat, down his navel: _yes._ His fingers tugging on JT’s shirt, rolling over his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle carved into his skin: _yes._ He tastes like toothpaste and something sharp, like mouthwash but not quite. 

Fuck, it’s good. Exactly what he needs. Dead boy walking, alive at last. 

“Shit,” JT mumbles, when Dick comes up for air. “How’d you find my address?” 

“Good,” Dick mumbles. This time when he leans forward, he presses his open mouth to JT’s neck, tastes the salty sheen of sweat lingering on his skin, feels him shuddering beneath his touch. “So fucking good.”

“Oh?”

He lets his lips wander, wanting to take in everything and anything he can. It’s his last goddamn meal, and he’s going to make it a _feast._ Between kisses Dick finds the buttons of his shirt and tugs at them, struggling to find their bearings beneath the soft heat of JT’s hands. “I’m all yours, Jay.”

“Oh.” JT’s fingers trace his spine, dip beneath the hem of his pants. “Is that so?”

Finally, his shirt slips from his skin and spills to the floor. Dick resumes his exploration of JT’s body, pushing his shirt up his chest, seeking possession of the skin beneath. Smooth. Warm. _Hard._ Between kisses, he mumbles, “I’m your dead boy walking, babe.” 

JT chuckles. Now his fingers are on Dick’s belt, fiddling with the clasp, tearing it through the loops of his slacks. “Mmm. Should I be scared?” 

“I’m hot and pissed. You tell me,” Dick growls, shoving JT onto the bed. A hand reaches out, invites him to join the fall. 

The rest is a rush. Bodies moving, hips grinding, teeth scraping, hands testing the waters of each other’s bodies. Dick tugs JT’s shirt over his head and loses sight of where it falls. Hands in his hair, pulling. Hands on his slacks, tugging. 

“You’re beautiful,” he mutters into JT’s mouth. 

JT lets out a groan that sounds like a laugh. “Liar. _You’re_ beautiful.”

Dick rips his mouth away, gasping. “No,” he says, dragging a finger down the grooves in JT’s chest. Down, down, letting the heat of his chest spill into his body. _“You’re_ beautiful.” 

“God, that’s poetic,” JT moans. “Byron shit.”

“Shhh.” Dick seals their mouths with a kiss. “Don’t talk about that. Don’t ruin it. Let’s lock the world out there, ‘kay?”

“That works for me.”

“Fuck yes.” 

The bed groans with them. All Dick knows is their hands, their mouths, their tongues, the marks they leave on each other’s bodies. The _heat._ “There,” Dick is muttering, moaning, _shivering._ And JT is gasping into his ears—“Okay, okay, okay…”—and his breath is hot and frantic as his hands, and Dick becomes untethered. 

No more Heathers. No more high school. No more anything. Just the two of them. 

It’s the best goddamn death of his life.


	4. The Me Inside Of Me

_ October 29th, 1989 _

Dick dreams about Catalina. 

She’s everywhere: in school, in his room, over his shoulder, over the bed.  _ How did you get here?  _ Dick asks, and her body turns to smoke. Then she is laughing. 

_ Dick Grayson, sleeping with the psycho trench coat kid?  _ she replies.  _ I will crucify you for this. Everyone in school is gonna know that Dick Grayson is nothing but a dirty little whore.  _

He’s choking on her, falling into emptiness. Before his throat constricts, he forces out,  _ Why do you want to hurt me?  _

The Catalina smoke is grinning.  _ Because I can,  _ she says.  _ It will be so very.  _

And he’s falling, and he’s falling, and he’s crying out for help but the sound is swallowed by the nothing, and it’s what he deserves…

He wakes ice cold and gasping. Head pounding. Ears ringing. Dick covers his eyes and groans, letting the world in one breath at a time. 

Party. Shots. Babs. Catalina. JT. 

A hand settles on his shoulder, squeezes.  _ JT.  _

“Jesus, Dick. You’re soaking wet,” he says. 

“Just a dream,” Dick replies, digging his knuckles into his eyes. He has to climb over JT to get out of the bed, and nearly collapses when his feet hit the floor.  _ Pants,  _ he thinks, searching for the Where did he toss his pants? Between his blurred vision and weak limbs, the search is a second nightmare.

“What’s the rush?” JT asks.

There. Tugging his pants up his legs, Dick mutters, “Gotta get to Catalina’s house.”

“I thought you said you were done with her. That you wanted a world without the Heathers.” 

Dick laughs bitterly. “I need her,” he says, buttoning his shirt. “It’s bullshit and I hate it, but I can’t do anything if I’m lower than dirt. It was a sweet fantasy while it lasted. But now it’s morning and I have to kiss her ass.” 

JT’s brow furrows as he stands and crosses his arms over his bar chest. His skin is flushed pink and littered with marks, purple and red and blushing. A painting Dick can still taste. “Was I just a fantasy too?” he asks. 

_ Shit. _ “No,” Dick replies quickly. “God no. Never.”

“Then fuck the Heathers. Catalina is that one bitch that deserves to die.” 

“Killing doesn’t solve anything.”

“Can’t you just picture it? One well-timed lightning bolt, and boom!” He mimes an explosion. “Goodbye, Catalina. All the bastards at school would scatter like ants.” 

Socks. Shoes. “I have to do this,” Dick says. 

“Why?”

Dick gives him a quick kiss on the cheek, hoping that it’s enough. “Because I want to make this world a better place. Things aren’t gonna change on their own.”

A pause. Something passes over JT’s face—a darkness? a concern?—but then it’s gone and he is sighing. “Fine,” he says. “Let me come with.”

“Wait. Really?”

“For backup.”

Dick can’t hide his smile. “Thanks,” he mutters. 

“Your zipper’s open.”

“Is it? Shit,” he swears, when he sees that JT is right. “What would I do without you?”

JT grins wickedly. “Who knows, babe,” he says. “Who knows.”

***

Catalina never locks the patio door. She told Dick this during a game of croquet, when she asked—well,  _ demanded _ —that he go in and get her two sticks of gum a diet coke. 

“Trust me,” Dick says as they walk quietly through her dining room. His heart is pounding in his throat. “She always skips her Sunday morning trips to Grandma’s.”

“‘Kay,” JT replies.

“No one else is home.”

“‘Kay.”

“We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Shit.” JT laughs quietly. “Why don’t we book it if you’re that fucking nervous.”

“I’m not nervous!” Dick hisses, even though they both know it’s a lie.  _ One last chance to make it right.  _ “Let’s just do this and get out of here.”

JT says nothing.

Licking his lips, Dick raises his head toward the top of the stairs. “Catalina?” he calls.

A pause. Then, a voice. “What the fuck?” 

“It’s Dick Grayson. I’m, um, here to apologize.”

A second, longer pause. “Well,” Catalina says. “Hope you brought kneepads, bitch. Fix me a prairie oyster and I’ll think about it.”

_ Fuck you,  _ he thinks. But he knows that, for once in his life, Dick Grayson needs to keep his stupid mouth shut. Instead, he turns to JT. “What the hell’s in a prairie oyster?”

“Raw egg, vinegar, hot sauce, Worcester, salt and pepper.”

“Huh,” he replies. “You know your hangover cures.”

JT shrugs. “I guess. Pops taught me well.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s just static.”

“Right,” Dick says, chewing his lip. Without saying anything else, he heads to the kitchen and starts to toss everything into a coffee mug. Egg, salt, pepper, hot sauce… 

“Gag. I’m hungover and I wouldn’t drink this,” he says, grimacing as he pokes the egg with a fork. The whites leave traces of slime along the inside walls of the mug.

“I’m more of a Drain-Flo guy myself,” JT says. In one hand: a bottle of drain cleaner. In the other: a coffee mug. 

Dick’s eyes go wide. He makes a swipe of the mug, misses as JT raises it above his head and laughs. “Shit, JT. You can’t joke about that.”

“Why not? This is our lightning bolt, babe.”

“Forget it.”

JT wiggles the mug.  _ “Chick-en!”  _

“It’s not funny,” Dick snaps. “Stop it.”

“Okay.” He sets the mug down on the counter and raises his hands in surrender. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Dick gives the prairie oyster one more stir, sets it down, and tosses the fork in the sink. “Let’s just get this over with and get out,” he says.

Strong arms wrap around his waist and draw him back, until he feels the hot core of another body against his own. “Mmm hmm,” JT mutters, pressing a kiss to his neck. Another. Another.

“JT…” 

“Mmm.” 

Teeth scrape down the skin of his earlobe. For a moment Dick is melting into the touch, craning his neck to allow JT further access to the soft palate beneath his jaw. Breathing, kissing… 

_ “Prairie oyster! Chop chop!”  _

“Get this over with,” Dick says suddenly, ripping himself from JT’s grasp. He grabs the mug and heads up to the stairwell.

“Dick, you—”

He turns around. “What?”

JT bites his lip, then shakes his head. “Nevermind. Coming.”

Catalina is sitting upright in bed, looking like she’s been caught in a tornado. Her makeup is smeared across her face; her hair can hardly be contained by the red scrunchie. “Dick,” she says when she sees them. “And Jessie James. Quelle surprise.”

“Cat—”

The mug is ripped from his hands. “Well?” she demands. “Get to it. Beg. Actually—” She holds up a finger, purses her lips. “I’d like to see you on your knees. It’s not like your boy toy’s never seen you that way before.”

Dick bites his tongue. “Uh huh,” he says. “Anyway, last night—”

“Do you think I was kidding?” Catalina laughs. “Down. Good boy.”

The rug is soft beneath him, but it might as well be hard as rock. He can’t tell what’s hotter: his face, or the anger, or the humiliation.  _ Keep it together. Keep it together…  _

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Nice. But you’re still dead to me,” Catalina replies. In a single fluid motion, she throws her head back and downs the contents of the mug. “So you and your—”

She stops suddenly, lips trembling. Her eyes bug out of her head. 

“Cat?”

And then the screams. She screams like her throat is on fire, and maybe it is. Fingers claw at her collar, her chest, her stomach. Gasping. Gagging. No more gasping. No more gagging. Her limp body crashes to the floor. 

Dick can’t move. His eyes are fixed on her still form, on the empty mug fallen beside her.  _ No,  _ he thinks, and the thought becomes a mantra, a plea.  _ No. No. No. No. No. _

Then JT says, “Oh my god,” and Dick breaks free.

“Don’t just stand there!” he cries. He kneels by her body, tries to lift her head from the ground. The room is a haze.  _ No. No. No!  _ “Call for an ambulance! Do something!”

Somewhere in the haze he is aware of JT beside him. Fingers at Catalina’s neck. One moment. Two moments. A shaking head.

“I think it’s too late,” JT says quietly. 

She’s dead. They’re both dead. He  _ killed  _ someone. This is his fault.  _ His fault.  _

“No,” Dick says. “Cat, Cat wake up. Wake up. You’re okay. Cat!” 

“Dick…”

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I just killed—I just killed my friend!” 

“And your worst enemy,” JT adds. 

“Everyone’s gonna think I did this on purpose. Oh god. Oh god.” His head is spinning. He can’t breathe. He’s tearing at his hair, tugging, pulling. “I’m a murderer.”

For a moment, JT doesn’t say anything. He stands, walks over to Catalina’s bookshelf, and grabs a small paperback. “You don’t have to be,” he says.

“What?”

“She was reading  _ The Bell Jar.”  _

It takes Dick a moment to understand. “No,” he says. “We—we can’t. This is my fault. We can’t cover it up.”

JT lowers the book. “How many people has she hurt? Dozens?  _ Hundreds?  _ Was this really a bad thing?”

“I killed someone.”

“You killed an evil bitch, Dick. Murder isn’t a no-win scenario. The world’s moral scales are tipping in the right direction.” He kneels next to Dick and holds out a pen and stationery. At the top,  _ CF  _ is written in fancy lettering. “All they need is one more push.”

Dick stares at the pen, then takes it, slowly. 

“You can fake her handwriting. Make her sound deep.”

“How?” Dick whispers.

JT seems to think for a moment, then says, “How about this.  _ You might think what I’ve done is shocking. But that’s because no one really knows me.”  _

Dick ruins the first note with a shaky hand.  _ Don’t look at her,  _ he reminds himself, as he grabs a new sheet of stationery and tries again. Another slip. “Fuck,” he mutters.

A hand settles on his shoulder. “You can do it,” JT says. “I know you can. Breathe.”

Inhale. Exhale.  _ “Believe it or not, I knew about fear,”  _ he says as he writes.  _ “I knew about loneliness. But I also knew how to hide it all behind pretty clothes and makeup.”  _

“That’s good,” JT says. 

_“But pretty girls have feelings too. I die knowing no one knew the me inside of me—_ shit,” Dick swears. He laughs nervously to release some of the pressure building inside his chest, behind his eyes. “Think they’re going to believe this?”

“They have to.”

The fear is coming back, crawling up Dick’s throat like nausea. “Oh god,” he mutters, glancing over at—

“Hey, hey. Don’t look,” JT says, turning Dick’s his face away from the scene and drawing him into an embrace. “It’s okay. You did a good thing, Dick. Everything is going to be alright.” 

Dick lets him take control from there. Plant the note in her hand. Wipe down everything they touched. Sneak out the back. Inhale. Exhale. 

It’s like they were never there in the first place. 

***

On Monday, they call an assembly right before lunch. Dick’s stomach clenches as he watches the students file aimlessly into the gymnasium, whispering. 

_ “What’s this one about?” _

_ “Heard someone died.” _

_ “Really?”  _

_ “Yeah. Suicide.” _

_ “Shit.”  _

_ Someone. _ Like they don’t all know who’s missing. 

He hugs his backpack against his chest until he can’t feel anything else. The truth slams against his lips like a battering ram— _ I did it! It was me! _ —but he can’t let it out, he  _ can’t.  _ This was a good thing. A good thing. And they made it into an even better thing. 

A shadow comes up behind him. “You good?” JT asks. 

Dick nods, clearing his throat. “Let’s go,” he says, and together they join the crowd.

Ms. Lance is the first to speak. 

“As some of you are well aware, this last weekend Gotham High experienced a tragedy,” she says. “It is with a heavy heart that I inform you that one of our students passed away. Our thoughts go out to the student’s friends and family.” 

Whispers sweep over them. Accusations. Exclamations. The words  _ suicide  _ and  _ Heathers  _ move in waves across the room, ebbing and flowing. When they reach Dick’s ears, he sinks lower in his seat. 

“We want to acknowledge that this is a difficult time for all of us here,” Ms. Lance says, “and we want to give you the opportunity to talk and feel together.” 

“I heard it was really gnarly,” says the girl behind Dick. “She drank Liquid Plumber and Comet and stuff then she smashed…” 

_ No,  _ he thinks.  _ I gave her a mug of Drain-Flo and she screamed while she died.  _

“Pauline’s dad works at the police station,” whispers someone else. “He got a copy of the note. You know, the  _ note.  _ Said it was real sad.” 

_ It was fake.  _

Ms. Lance continues. “We’re going to break you off into groups,” she says, and with each passing second her voice grows small in Dick’s ears. A hum takes over, cutting her off and vibrating against his eardrums, his skull. 

“It’s really important—”

_ Humm. _

“—acknowledge what we are going through and—”

_ Humm. _

“—each other in this difficult—”

_ Huuummmmmm.  _

And then he’s in a circle with fifteen people he vaguely recognizes, all of whom are looking at him.  _ They know,  _ he mind screams, but then he remembers: he’s still Dick Grayson, Untouchable. He is—was—Catalina’s friend. He’s supposed to be  _ devastated.  _

At last, a reason to let the mask of calm slip away. 

The girl across the circle from him is the first to talk. “I can’t believe it,” she says quietly. “And I keep asking myself, did she punch me because she wanted real human connection?”

A few people mutter in agreement. 

“Catalina and I used to go together,” one guy says, “but she said I was boring. Maybe I wasn’t really boring. She was just dissatisfied with her life.”

Dick laughs and pretends it was a sob. What is wrong with him? What is  _ wrong  _ with him?

“Oh,” a teacher says softly. “Dick, I’m so sorry. You were one of Catalina’s friends, weren’t you? Do you want to share?” 

“Um…” Dick looks around the circle, then crosses his arms over his chest. “I guess I realized that we can only be happy when we give up our power, and the only way to do that is to die.”

Silence. A few people nod in agreement. 

Big breath in, slow breath out. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t really know what to say. It’s just, this discussion is a lot. For me. Right now.” 

“That’s okay,” the teacher says. “Whatever you’re feeling right now is good. This is a good thing, Dick Grayson.” 

Right. A good thing. As he looks around the cafeteria, he sees people talking to each other. Being kind. JT makes eye contact from across the room and gives him a small, knowing smile. And one group over, Crystal is wearing Catalina’s red scrunchie and grinning from ear to ear.


	5. Our Love Is God

_ November 1, 1989 _

Catalina is on the news. Again. 

The television is grainy and covered in dust, but Dick can still make out a reporter shoving a microphone into Crystal’s face. He stares at the screen, stomach lurching with each new word. In the distance, there is a body leaning into his, fingers drawing shapes on the skin of his arms, but he can’t pay them any attention. 

“At a time like this, negative people choose to focus on their grief,” Crystal says, tossing silver hair over her shoulder. “Well, I hate those people. I am a very positive person. I remember the good times, like when Catalina and I got our ears pierced at the mall.”

_ Click.  _ New channel. Now it’s a different local news, and people are talking about a tragic incident at a local high school—

_ Click.  _ Back to Crystal. Now Harley is at her side, looking like she’s been crying. “I remember going to the state fair with her last summer,” Harley says. She sniffs loudly. “We made ourselves sick eating Corn Nuts. Such a magical time!”

_ Click.  _ New channel. New interviewee. “In my heart, Catalina’s still alive,” he says. 

_ Click.  _ Off. Dick can’t take it anymore.

“What’s the matter?” JT mumbles. His mouth is close to Dick’s throat, so close that each exhale settles beneath the skin. 

“Nothing.” Even though he isn’t looking, he can feel JT smiling. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Catalina Heather is more popular than ever now.”

“Yeah,” Dick agrees. He stares around the room, reading the labels on the moving boxes JT never unpacked.  _ Books. Books. Magazines. Living. Junk and Shit.  _ The cardboard is worn thin, the labels fading. Dick wonders how many times they’ve been used. 

JT plants a soft kiss on Dick’s neck. “Just don’t think about it,” he says. Another kiss. Another. His hand creeps into Dick’s jeans, fingers the hem of his boxers. “We can do something else instead.”

Dick pushes him off. “Your dad will be home soon.”

“So?”

“So what’s he gonna do if he sees us like this?”

JT laughs. “You can’t make anything of life if you don’t take risks.”

Dick can’t help but cast his eyes toward the television. “There’s risks and there’s acting stupid,” he says quietkly. 

“Come on. Let’s live before we die,” JT replies, but the words and his face soon lose their humor. After a moment he says, “Why, son, I didn’t see you come in.”

There’s a man standing in the entryway of the house, struggling to undo the knot of his tie. His suit is disheveled and his face is unshaven and worn by age, but he’s so obviously JT’s dad that it almost hurts _.  _ The same build, the same coloring, the same wrinkle between his brows that appears when he’s frustrated. 

Finally, the tie rips off. “Hey Dad, how was the job search today?” the man asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He kicks off his shoes and doesn’t seem to care where they fall. “It was miserable. Some damn bitch said I couldn’t apply for a position. All because some other bitch found out about the cars and said I had a record. Just like New York. You remember New York?”

“That was the one with the city, right?” JT asks.

“Aren’t you a smartass. Just like that bitch from New York. Fucking New York.” He pauses as he notices, seemingly for the first time, Dick sitting there. “Who’s this?”

“Willis, Dick,” JT says. “Dick, Willis.”

“It’s my name,” Dick adds, because he’s used to it. He works up a smile as he offers his hand to Willis. “Hello.”

No one moves.

“Heya Jason,” JT says at last. “Why don’t you invite your little friend to stay for dinner?”

“It’s fine,” Dick says. He laughs awkwardly. “Bru—my dad is making my favorite tonight. Baked potatoes. Lots of cheese.”

JT nods. “Nice. My mom used to cook. Last time she did that was right before she stuck the needle in her arm. Right,  _ Dad?”  _

Silence. Dick wishes he could crawl inside his ribcage. He wishes he could wrap his arms around JT and drag him away. But mostly, he just wishes someone would say something. 

Willis’ grin looks like it might be a threat. “Right,  _ Son,”  _ he says. 

“Right,” Dick says weakly. “I’m going to—I’m going to go. See you tomorrow, JT.” 

JT doesn’t reply. 

***

He’s almost finished with his homework when the telephone starts to ring. Dick sighs and picks up the receiver, hoping that it’s Babs or JT even though he knows it isn’t. 

“Dick, I need help,” Harley says. Her voice is warped, like she’s speaking on a payphone. 

“What?”

“I need help. Meet me at the cemetery.” 

“What?” Dick says again, before he recovers. “I mean, yeah. Sure. Of course. What’s wrong?”

“Just hurry. It’s an emergency!” she replies, and then the call ends. 

Dick stares at the receiver, chewing his lower lip. After a moment, he sets it back down, grabs his jacket, says goodbye to Bruce, and gets on his bike. 

Crystal’s car is parked just inside the cemetery gates. He hops off his bike and approaches it slowly, his eyes seeking out movement in the darkness. “Harley?” he hisses. 

No response. 

“Harley?” Dick says again, rounding the front of the car to find Jack Napier face-down in the dirt. He yelps and jumps backwards, reeling from the fountain of adrenaline inside.  _ Catalina screaming. Catalina screaming. Run. Run!  _

“Dick,” Harley says. 

Breathing deep, he grounds himself again. “Is Jack okay?”

“He passed out. Me and Jack and Roman and Crystal came out to pour a jug of Thunderbird on Cat’s grave—y’know from her homies—but the boys drank it all.” She lets out a high-pitched, nervous giggle. “Roman and Crystal went off together, then Jack started grabbing me and he wouldn’t stop.”

“Fuck,” Dick breathes. “Harley, I’m sorry.”

There it is again: that high-pitched, nervous giggle. “Mmm hmmm,” she says. 

He pauses, watching Jack inhale, exhale. The skin on the back of his neck begins to tingle; a warning. “After everything that happened at Roman’s party,” he begins, “why did…why did you call me?”

Harley bites her lip and says nothing.

“Harley…”

“It was a deal, okay?” she says. “Jack said he had a lot of pent-up energy, and I told him, you don’t have to spend it on me, ya know! And then he said he would leave me alone if I got you here.”

Bad. Very bad. Dick’s shoes scrape over the dirt as he inches backwards, fingers outstretched as if he could draw his bike into his grasp. “So,” he begins, fighting to keep his voice steady, “you avoided date rape by volunteering me up as some kind of punching bag?”

Harley smiles apologetically. “You’re making it sound ugly.”

“It  _ is _ ugly.” 

“I’m sorry, Dickie. I had to do it.” 

“Whatever,” he snaps, already turning to leave. “I’m leaving now.” 

“Wait, Dickie—”

Dick swears as he trips over one of Jack’s long legs, stumbling. His knees hit the hard dirt as dust fills his mouth. Just in front of him, footsteps crunch over dried grass and piles of dead leaves.  _ Damn it,  _ he thinks, staring at the beads of blood pushing through his palms. The cold air stings. 

Behind him, Jack stirs. “Ho-ly crap,” he mutters. His giggles are high-pitched, almost crazed. “Pumpkin, you actually got him here.” 

“I’m leaving,” Dick says again. He stands just in time to see Crystal buttoning her blouse as she steps through the bushes.

“God damn it, Roman,” she snaps. Not even a passing glance at Dick. “I said I’m done!”

“C’mon, babe. Don’t walk away!”

“Sober up, idiot. Harley, unlock the door.”

Something clicks. Crystal tugs open the passenger door and slides inside, slamming it shut behind her. Roman punches the glass, laughs, then punches it again. 

“C’mon. Crystal. You can’t stop now.”

Dick wipes his hands on his pants. For a brief second, the wind carries Catalina’s screams into his ears. His stomach twists into a knot. 

“She said she’s done,” he says sharply. And, as he hears Jack clamoring to his feet: “They’re both done.” 

Roman’s fist smashes against the glass again. “Unlock the door.”

Crystal flips him off.

“Unlock the door!  _ Unlock the door you fucking bitch!” _

A pair of pale, lanky arms fall over Dick’s shoulders. Acidic breath seeps into his ear. “Ahh, cool it, Romeo,” Jack purrs. “We can always do something _ else _ instead.” 

Dick shrugs him off, gritting his teeth. “Don’t touch me.” 

Jack laughs. “Aww, come on lamb chop. I thought you’d  _ looove  _ the chance to hang with some real—hey! Where are you going?”

Saying nothing, Dick picks his bike up from the road. Squeezes the handles until he can’t feel his hands anymore.  _ Fuck you,  _ he thinks. At them. At the Heathers. At himself. Every goddamn time he tries to do something good…

The bike is wrenched from his grasp.

“What the shit—”

Roman cuts him off. “Don’t be harsh like that,” he says. When Dick makes a move for the bike, he throws it aside. 

“This isn’t funny.” 

A cackle. Jack. “Of course it’s funny! Come on, Dickie. Loosen up a little.” 

“Like you do for your boyfriend,” Roman adds, smirking. 

Dick grits his teeth. “Give me my bike,” he says, starting toward it. 

Jack steps into his path. “Ooh. An idea. Let’s play a little game. What was that one we used to play, Roman? Real choice stuff.” 

“Fuck. Off.”

“Oh  _ that’s  _ right! Smear the queer. Remember smear the queer, Roman ol’ boy?” 

Roman’s grin is sick. “Fuck yeah I do.”

“I swear to god,” Dick says. “If you touch me—”

“Ooh. Watch out!” Jack takes a step forward, laughing as Dick flinches. “God. You were right, Harley baby. This is so much more  _ fun!”  _

Right. Harley. Crystal. The car. 

Dick makes a run for it, dodging Jack’s outstretched hand as he makes his way toward the rear doors. “Harley,” he says. His voice is higher than he wants it to be. More desperate. “Harley, open the door.” 

Through the glass, he can hear Crystal hissing. 

“Oh no no no. They’ll get in.” 

Harley’s eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, Dickie,” she says. 

“Harley! Don’t let—”

The words are cut out as he is yanked backward. His back hits the ground, hard. No more air. He’s left gasping, writhing on the dirt as the pain spreads down his spine. 

Jack grins down at him. “Come on, stud. It’s just a  _ game. _ Let’s have some fun!” 

“Eat…shit,” Dick chokes out. 

“Jesus. You suck dick with that mouth?” Roman asks. As Dick tries to sit up, he drives the toe of his sneaker into Dick’s ribs. A dull pain lights up his side. “Nuh uh. Not so fast.”

Jack kneels down next to him, so close that the stink of alcohol makes Dick’s eyes water. “Here are the rules. One,” he says, holding up a finger, “You lie there. Two. We beat you. Three. We all go our merry little ways.” 

Finally: a solid breath. Dick can move his limbs again. Clench his fist. Plant his soles against the ground. And punch. 

His knuckles hit Jack squarely on the jaw. There’s a high-pitched cry of surprise, and in the small moment that follows Dick scrambles to his knees, only to be thrown back by a sudden blow. He yelps as hot blood spurts from his nose. 

“Fucker thinks he can fight,” Roman spits, swinging his fist again. Dick ducks beneath it, covering his bleeding nose with one hand. “That’s cute.” 

“Get the fuck away from me,” he hisses. Blood pours between his fingers. The taste of copper fills his mouth. 

Then something strikes the back of his head, and the taste doesn’t matter anymore. “You’re not playing by the rules,” Jack says. “What a buzzkill.” 

Another sneaker meets his ribs. Dick curls into a ball, covering his head as the blows fall down on him. Somewhere in the distance he’s aware of insults, cackles, the sound of an engine pulling away. “Stop,” he mutters weakly. 

But no one does. 

***

A drop of blood falls on the blank page of his notebook. Dick sniffs, picking up the red-stained washcloth beside his pen. The dried blood and dirt on his skin cracks and flakes as he moves. 

Everything hurts.

_ This is my fault,  _ he thinks, writing the words down in a shaky hand.  _ Catalina was the only one who could control them. I guess I was only trying to help people, but… maybe I deserve this. Hell. Who am I kidding? I deserve this.  _

When he thinks the bleeding has stopped, Dick stands, takes a deep breath, and walks to the bathroom to rinse himself off. The shower water stings as it washes over him. Brown, then pink, then clean. 

Out of the shower, he doesn’t look so bad. If he wears the right clothes, all everyone will see is a large bruise around his eye socket and a cut on his lip. He can still pretend to be the Untouchable Dick Grayson. No one has to know. 

But they do anyway. 

At school, people keep glancing at him in the hallways. Whispering. During passing periods he catches the tail end of a comment, enough to piece together what they were really saying. 

“…I mean, I kinda knew he was…”

“…totally wasted…” 

“… _ looks  _ like a fag, you know?”

“…off Jack and Roman…” 

“Ew.” 

Every time he breathes, the constellations of bruises along his ribs begin to protest. The cut on his lip splits open again. And in the end, Dick can only grit his teeth and try to keep a straight face. 

When the last bell rings, he gathers his things, ducks into the hallway, and rushes toward the door. Pushes it open. Pretends to be okay as he trods over the quad and the grass, past the gym, and onto the bleachers. There, he collapses. 

Taking a deep breath, he rests his head in his torn hands. 

The metal creaks. Someone sits down beside him. 

“Hey,” JT says. 

“Hey.”

“You good? Haven’t seen you all day.” 

“I’m fine. Awesome,” Dick replies, just as his vision blurs and a sob tears through him. “Fuck. Sorry. I—fuck.” 

“Dick what—what happened to your face?” 

Dick laughs without humor. “Oh. You didn’t hear?”

“About those sick fucks? Yeah, but I thought—oh god, Dick. Don’t cry.” JT wraps his arms around him, hugs him tight against his warm body. “Don’t cry.”

“Sorry,” Dick mumbles into his chest. 

JT tenses. “Don’t be sorry. Never be sorry. You’re the only good thing in this world, you know that?” 

_ Not true.  _ “JT…” 

“It’s gonna be okay. The morning’s gonna come, and it’s gonna be okay,” JT says. His voice breaks. “Shit. Now I’m crying too.” 

“That’s pretty gay,” Dick mumbles.

JT pulls away. “Is that why they hurt you?” he asks, face growing dark. “Because of me?” 

“No. I mean, no. It’s not your fault.”

“Fuck. They’re gonna fucking pay.” Standing, he holds out his hand for Dick to take. “We’re gonna make them pay, Dick.” 

Dick shakes his head. “You’ll make it worse.” 

“Sometimes you have to burn the world to build it up again,” JT replies, gathering Dick’s things into his arms. “Come on. Let’s go. Get you out of here.” 

A moment passes. Dick takes a shaky breath, wipes his face on his sleeve, and smiles. 

Before long they’re sitting in JT’s bedroom, staring at the telephone. 

JT puts his hand on the back of Dick’s. “You know what to say?” he asks. 

“Yep.”

“Cool. And you’ve got the number?” 

Dick holds up a slip of paper. 

“Okay.” JT brushes the hair away from Dick’s face and plants a small kiss on his temple. “You got this, love.” 

_ Right,  _ Dick thinks. He steels himself as he dials, working up an anger that’s not hard to find. It needs to be believable. Otherwise it won’t work. 

Roman picks up the phone right away. “Hello?” 

“We’re not finished,” Dick hisses into the receiver. 

A pause. 

“Who the fuck is this?” 

“It’s Dick, you dipstick.” 

“Dick?” Roman laughs unkindly. “Shit. You want to blow me or something?” 

Beside him, JT stiffens. His lip curls into a snarl. “Tell him,” he hisses. 

“I want to fight,” Dick replies. “A real fight. You, me, and Jack.”

Roman laughs again. “Mental. Got a death wish?” 

Despite his churning insides, Dick hardly flinches. “Meet me at the cemetery. Three in the morning,” he snaps, and hangs up. Silence.

JT’s hand falls on his own. “See?” he says. “Told you it would work.” 

“That was the easy part.”

“When I’m with you, it’s all the easy part. We’re invincible.”

Dick snorts. “You’re not the one with your ass on the line.”

“God. If they knew what an ass you have, they’d worship it instead.” 

“Romantic.” 

Smirking, JT brings Dick’s hand to his lips and kisses each knuckle in turn. “We’re gonna make things so good,” he says. Kissing the wrist. The bruises along the inner arm. “Wipe the slate clean.” 

Dick watches him, feeling warmth spread from his touch. “How?” he asks quietly. 

“Here.” JT lets go of his arm and pulls out a box from beneath his bed. When Dick sees what’s inside, he jerks back. 

“Guns?” he hisses. “Are you insane?” 

“Calm down. We're filling them with Ich Luge bullets.”

Dick pauses, feeling his heartbeat falling. “Ich Luge?”

JT nods. “Grandad scored them in World War II. Got a powerful tranq in them. Nazis used them to fake their own suicides when the Russians invaded Berlin.”

“Jesus,” Dick breathes, staring at the dark metal of the pistols. 

“We shoot the bastards. Make it look like they shot each other. By the time they regain consciousness, the damage will be done. The note will seal the deal. How’d it turn out?”

Dick takes a piece of paper out of his backpack and holds it up. Jack’s handwriting.  _ Roman and I died because we couldn’t handle the guilt of all the shit we’ve done. The world wanted us to be scumbags, but we just couldn’t do it anymore.  _

“Nice,” JT says. “Short. Sweet. No big words.” 

Eyeing the gun once more, Dick lets the paper fall from his hands. “We’ll be waiting for a while,” he says.

“Hours.” 

“Are we just gonna sit here?” 

Shrugging, JT scoots closer to Dick and draws a finger down his inner arm. “We could,” he says conversationally. “Or you can lie here with an ice pack while I blow your brains out.” 

“Hmm. Poor choice of words.” 

“I’m just saying. What’s a better  _ fuck you  _ than fucking you?” 

“Oh, you’re so smart,” Dick says, pulling JT in for a deep kiss. 

JT’s hands find the buttons of his pants and tug them open. “I’ll make you forget them,” he mutters into Dick’s neck, fingers dipping down the front of his boxers. “Kill the world. Just you and me.” 

Dick nods desperately, keening into his touch. “Just you and me,” he whispers, and everything falls apart around him. 

***

There is a pistol tucked in the back of his pants. 

Dick can’t keep his thoughts off of it.  _ Bad idea,  _ say the voices in his head, and he wants to believe that the voices aren’t him, but he can’t. His fingers are shaking, almost numb. There’s a jitter inside him that won’t go away. 

Oh, god. Is he  _ excited?  _

“There you are,” someone says. Roman. “God. This is too good. You’re an even bigger wastoid than I thought.” 

“Don’t be rude,” Jack laughs maniacally, smacking Roman’s shoulder. “He wants to play again. Let’s just give the man what he wants and blow this joint.” 

Roman nods, but says nothing. Even in the darkness, it’s clear that his steely blue eyes are fixed on Dick. “Oh, something blows all right,” he says. “But it’s not us.” 

“Clever,” Dick says dryly. 

“You won’t be so mouthy when we’re done with you,” Roman sneers. 

“Takes a lot to shut me up. I don’t think you have the stuff.” 

Roman smirks. “Oh, I think you’ll find my  _ stuff  _ is more than enough.” 

“Jesus.” Jack kicks a loose stone across the gravel. “Are we done with the theatrics? I was hoping for a replay of our little game last night.” 

“Fine,” Dick snaps. The gun is heavy in the back of his pants, pulling him toward the earth. “You want to play? Let’s play. Count of three. One… Two…”

JT steps out from the shadows. “Three,” he says, and a gun goes off. 

Ears ringing. Jack hits the ground. Something dark trickles down the front of his forehead. A cry. Roman. 

_ “You fucking killed him!” _

“What are you waiting for?” JT screams. “Shoot him!” 

The gun is in his hands. Heavy. Cool. 

“Shoot him! Fuck.” 

There’s a sudden blur as JT rushes after Roman, his coat billowing out behind him. Dick’s heart drums in his throat. His whole body trembles. 

“Jack?” he whispers, prodding his limp form with his foot. “Jack, you’re just unconscious right?” 

Jack doesn’t move. When Dick touches Jack’s neck, his fingers are coated in something hot and sticky. 

_ No, no, no…  _

In the distance, JT is still screaming. “Off the damn fence! Get off the fence!” 

“No,” Dick whispers. He whips around, searching for two forms amongst the black. Nothing, nothing… 

A second shot. For the briefest moment, the cemetery is alight. Then all is black and still. 

Dick collapses, unable to do anything but stare at Jack’s body. Dead. 

“What the fuck have you done?” he whispers, when he hears JT’s heavy footsteps. “JT. You fucking… You  _ murdered  _ them.” 

“I murdered two  _ rapist _ pieces of  _ filth.”  _ JT says. “The world is better off without them.”

“I—”

“The Heathers of this world, they’re bad. But the Jacks?” He thrusts a finger at the body. The  _ body.  _ “The Romans? They’re  _ way  _ worse.” 

“They’re  _ people,”  _ Dick says. 

“And look what they did to you.” JT kneels down and brushes a hand against Dick’s cheek. “Oh god, Dick. If only you knew how much I  _ worship  _ you.” 

Dick can’t even move as he’s pulled into JT’s arms. The world spins around him. Jack’s dead eyes are mirrors. Dead eyes. Dead. 

“I’d trade my life for yours,” JT whispers. 

_ Dead. Dead. Dead.  _

“I promise no one is ever gonna harm you again. Anyone who tries… Fuck, Dick. We’ll make them disappear. Just you and me.”

“Just you and me,” Dick echoes. Why did he say that? Why can’t he move?

“Right.” JT pulls away, smiling softly. “Our love is god, Dick. Our love is  _ god.” _


	6. Lifeboat

_ November 5, 1989 _

The day of the funeral, Dick sits with his notebook in the park across from the church. One dark thought away from throwing up. There are still people mulling around in the church parking lot, dressed in black, crying about the  _ two young men taken from us far too soon.  _ Dick watches them for a second too long, wondering. 

_ Just seventeen,  _ he thinks, jaw trembling.  _ Maybe they would have turned out good. Maybe we took that away from them.  _

He should turn himself in. He killed them. He didn’t pull the trigger, but he  _ killed  _ them. 

There’s the scrape of boots over gravel as someone comes down the path, takes a seat on the bench next to him. Dick doesn’t need to look to see who it is. 

“Knock, knock,” JT says, tapping Dick lightly on the forehead. “Anyone home?”

Dick forces his eyes away from the church. “Thinking.” 

“No shit.” JT sits back on the bench, looks both ways before taking Dick’s hand in his own and squeezing. “There’s been a distinct lack of boys climbing through my bedroom window lately.”

“Yeah?” Dick wrenches his hand away. “Take the hint.”

“Okay, you’re mad. I get it.”

“Mad?  _ Mad? _ For fuck’s sake, JT, you fucking—” He cuts himself off, fixing JT with a furious stare. “You lied to me, and now two people are  _ dead.”  _

Jaw twitching, JT shakes his head. “You’re lying to yourself. You wanted them dead.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.” 

_ “Did not!” _

“Did they make you cry?” 

Dick pauses, jaw and chest aching with the memory of fists. Finally, he mutters, “Yes.”

JT smirks. “Can they make you cry now?”

“No,” Dick replies. “But you can.” 

“Jesus, Dick.” JT stands and jabs a finger toward the church. “You think I’m like those fucking date-raping  _ pigs?  _ They aren’t Catalina, darling. I’m talking hurt. Real, honest-to-god  _ hurt.  _ So why don’t you just admit it. You knew the world would be a whole lot better if they just fucked off and died.” 

Dick’s stomach twists into a knot.  _ I didn’t,  _ he almost says, but the words harden on his tongue. The sickness inside him worsens. 

_ Murderer.  _

“Don’t you remember Catalina?” JT adds. “Just  _ wait  _ ‘till you see all the good that comes of this.”

“What good could possibly come of this?” Dick asks quietly.

JT laughs. “Weren’t you at the funeral? Didn’t you see what they were talking about? _Those boys weren’t monsters, they were tortured souls looking to do good! Let us be like them and_ _love one another. Be kind, like they would have wanted you to be.”_

“Stop it.”

“What’s this I smell in the air? Tolerance? Inclusion? Love? How often can you say that it’s a good day to live in Gotham? You’re welcome, town.”

Dick huffs, trying not to look at the church across the street. “You shouldn’t be so smug about it.”

“Your love keeps me humble.” JT grins. “So who’s next? Harley? That bitch that brought you to the cemetery. I’ve taken the liberty of underlining meaningful passages in her copy of  _ Moby Dick,  _ if you know what I mean.”

“No.”

“No?”

Dick holds his notebook against his chest and stares at the gravel, feeling nausea rising in his throat. “Three people are dead. This ends. Right now.”

JT’s face twists into something dark. “Or what?”

“Or…” _Say it,_ Dick thinks, swallowing the sick that builds inside him. “…or I’m breaking up with you.” 

“Shit, Dick,” JT breathes. He runs a hand through his dark hair, curses again. “Any war has casualties. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth fighting. Let me guess—you’d rather go to jail? And give a free pass to the bastards that hurt people? Great! Let’s _ all _ bow down to the evil pricks who make the world so fucking  _ unbearable  _ that you just can’t fucking take it anymore!” 

Dick quiets, studying JT’s face. He’s angry; that much would be obvious to anyone. But there’s something else beneath the surface, something almost…sad. A desperation behind his eyes; a quiver in his lip. 

“Jay,” he begins, softly, “how did your mother die?”

A moment passes. Then JT asks, “You really want to know?”

Dick nods.

Sighing, JT sits down on the bench again and splays his fingers in front of him, as if studying his fingernails. “My dad said it was an accident,” he says. “But she knew what she was doing. Loaded up that needle with enough smack to take out a fucking elephant. Asked me to bring her some vodka, and then…” He taps his inner arm. It’s a graceful, gentle gesture. “She left me.”

“I’m really sorry,” Dick says quietly. And he is. 

JT motions dismissively. “The pain gives me clarity,” he replies. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“What work?”

_ “Our  _ work. We’re going to make the world a decent place for people who are decent. Like us.” 

_ Like us.  _ A weight settles at the bottom of Dick’s stomach. He thinks about the sound of a gunshot, of Catalina screaming. About lying awake at night, weighed down by thoughts of what he had done. 

Quietly, he asks, “And when does it end?” 

“When every asshole is dead.”

Dick licks his lips, unable to look at JT—at anything, really. Guilt rolls through him like a tidal wave, suffocating.  _ You fucking killed him…  _

“Fine,” he says. “We’re damaged. But that doesn’t make us better than anyone else. It’s not our right to choose who lives or dies.”

“Dick—”

“Let’s be normal,” he says quickly, forcing himself to look into JT’s hard expression. “Please. Let’s see bad movies. Sneak a beer. Make out in Robinson Park. I mean, we’re  _ seventeen,  _ JT. Don’t you want to be seventeen? With me?” 

_ Please. Please. Please.  _

JT softens. Twisting his hands together, he takes a deep breath, stares up toward the sky. “People are going to hurt us, Dick. The world doesn’t want us together.”

Dick takes his hand, squeezes gently. “I know.” 

“I can’t even ask you to prom .”

“I know,” Dick says again. Urgently. “I don’t care. I want to be with you.”

JT moves closer to him, so close that Dick can smell the sweet scent of his hair gel. Only an inch between their thighs. “I don’t want to lose you,” he mutters.

“So don’t lose me.”

“You really want to be normal, huh?”

_ If we can be,  _ Dick thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead he looks around and, seeing no one, presses a quick kiss on JT’s lips. JT melts into his touch, holding on even after they’re apart. And for just a moment, Dick wonders if things really will be alright.

***

On Monday Babs finds him at lunch, looking ill. 

“Babs!” he forces, feeling Crystal’s harsh gaze on the back of his neck.  _ It’s nothing. Totally normal. She’s your friend.  _

“Hi Dick,” she says, looking around as if afraid someone is about to call her something cruel. Her voice lowers to a whisper.  _ “I need your help.” _

“What? Is something wrong?”

“I think Jack and Roman were murdered.”

It’s like a sudden blow to the stomach. Dick can do nothing but blink, too stunned to form words. Too stunned to do anything but spiral into darkness.

_ She knows she knows she knows she knows. _

“I know. It sounds crazy, but…” She pulls her lips tight. “Think about their suicide note. It could have been forged, right? You forge stuff all the time.” 

_ She knows she knows she knows she knows. _

Finally, Dick forces out, “Who would want to kill Jack and Roman?”

Babs looks around again. “I think…I think it might have been that Jason kid,” she says. “Look. I know you’re friends, but there’s something  _ off  _ about him. Can’t you feel it?” 

“You’re wrong,” Dick replies quickly. “You’re wrong.”

“Maybe.” 

“He’s just been through a lot.”

Babs hugs her bag against her chest. “I just want to look through his locker. Help me get his combination.”

_ She knows.  _

“Babs, this is…” He shakes his head, trying not to puke. “…this is a pretty wild theory.”

“I don’t care what they were saying at the funeral,” she replies. Something like anger appears on her face, festering beneath her expression. “Jack and Roman? They didn’t care about what they did to people. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop…?” Her eyes narrow. “Dick, what the hell is  _ wrong  _ with you?”

“I’m just trying to understand,” he says, trying to feign confusion.  _ Is it working? Is it working?  _ “Why would you even think that?”

“The note, Dick! Why would—why would they do that to me, and  _ laugh  _ about it?” She shakes her head, already. “I’m going to talk to JT. Something’s wrong.”

_ No no no no no— _

Dick closes his eyes, breathing deep.  _ I’m so sorry.  _

He forces out a laugh, heart already twisting. “You floor me, Babs,” he says. “You really do.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

_ I’m so, so sorry.  _

“Jack didn’t write that note. I did.”

Babs looks like she’s been slapped. “You didn’t.”

“Yeah, the Heathers put me up to it. Jack didn’t even know. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, Babs.” Again he laughs. He’s going to throw up. “Telling you to leave that party was the last good thing he ever did. Move on!” 

For a long moment, she does nothing but stare. Then, slowly, she turns around and moves away, not once looking back.

Dick waits until she’s gone before he runs to the nearest bathroom and empties his guts in the toilet. 

He’s still kneeling on the floor when he hears a voice over the PA system.  _ All students to the gym for a special assembly…  _

Not again, he thinks, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. An ugly sense of déjà vu creeps over him, renewing the sickness in his gut. Like Catalina all over again. Shuffling feet. Knowing glances. Whispers moving over the crowds.

_ “What’s this one about?” _

_ “Probably Jack and Roman.” _

_ “Oh. That’s sad.”  _

_ “Yeah. Who knew they were such nice people deep down?” _

Again. More of the same announcements from Mrs. Lance.  _ Take care of yourself—hard time for all of us—this is a safe space—be kind— _

“This is so gross,” Crystal whispers to him, when they’re in small groups. Again. “I mean, god. Like we really care about anyone’s problems.”

Dick thinks about Babs and says nothing.

“I don’t know,” Harley replies. She hugs her chest, staring at the tile floor. “I’m kind of looking forward to this.”

Crystal rolls her eyes. “God, Harley. Grow up. It’s just a fucking _ feelings _ fest. What do they think we are? First-graders?”

A boy on the other side of the circle nods. “Yeah,” he says. “This is fucking lame.”

Pulling out a compact mirror, Crystal begins to touch up her lipstick. “Jack and Roman didn’t die for us to do pseudo-therapy,” she says, prodding at her lip with her pinkie finger. “Does Mrs. Lance really think we’re just going to sit around and spill our darkest secrets?”

_ I killed Catalina,  _ Dick thinks.  _ I let JT kill Jack and Roman. I’m a murderer.  _

And god. What is Babs saying right now? 

“Come on, kids,” Crystal drawls, mimicking Mrs. Lance. “Shine a light on your deepest insecurities, children! Let’s all  _ share  _ and be  _ friends.  _ Do it for Cat and Jack and Roman!” 

“I flunked my English test,” someone says, stifling their own giggles. 

“I want to fuck Molly Ringwald up the ass,” says another.

Crystal laughs. “Let it all out!”

_ “I stole twenty bucks from my mom!” _

_ “I stole a bottle of rum from  _ my _ mom!”  _

_ “I put a  _ Playboy  _ centerfold in the church donation basket!” _

“I’ve thought about killing myself!” Harley blurts out, so suddenly that it seems everyone else has gone still. 

“Jesus, Harley,” Crystal says. “Choice comment.”

“I’m…I’m serious,” she squeaks, face reddening as she sinks lower in the plastic folding chair. “My sort-of boyfriend killed himself, and my best friend seemed to have it all together, but she’s gone too. Now my stomach’s hurting worse and worse, and—” She takes a deep breath, sinking lower. “—and every morning on the bus I feel my heart beating louder and faster, and I’m like Jesus, I’m on the frickin’ bus again ‘cause all my rides to school are  _ dead.” _

“Oh my god, Harley,” Dick says quietly. 

She lets out a sad laugh. “It’s like I’m in a lifeboat, ya know? A real tiny one. And we’re sinking, and the sky’s all stormy, and we all know somebody’s gotta get tossed off this thing!” Another laugh. “And…and the moment I do something wrong I just know I’m gonna be thrown right over the side! And if the captain wants me gone, then who’s gonna tell her no? The weakest must go, right?”

A long moment of silence follows. Dick hugs his arms against his chest, watching Harley, watching Crystal, wanting so badly to help. But he’ll only make it worse. He  _ always  _ makes it worse.

And then Crystal laughs. “What’s your damage, Harley?” she asks. “Are you saying Gotham High is not a nice place?”

_ “Crystal”  _ Dick hisses, heat rising in his chest, his face.

She waves him off. “Why don’t you hop in your little lifeboat and catch a gnarly wave over to Star City!” 

_ Do something,  _ says his brain.  _ Do something. _

“Aw, look. Harley’s gonna cry!” someone says. 

Her eyes are brimming with tears. Without saying anything, she stands and starts to collect her things. “They wanted us to talk,” she whispers. 

_ Do something.  _

“Yeah,” someone else replies.  _ “Talk.  _ Not cry about how popular we used to be.”

Crystal nods. “Yeah, Harley. Nobody wants to hear you whine all the goddamn time.”

“Bitch about it somewhere else,” someone adds.

_ Do something.  _

But Harley is already walking away, struggling not to cry even as tears pour down her face—

Dick flies to his feet. “What the fuck is  _ wrong  _ with you?” he snarls, glaring at the faces around him. “You think this is fucking  _ funny?  _ You think suicide is a big fucking  _ joke?”  _

“Calm down, hotshot. Harley’s just looking for attention,” Crystal replies smoothly. 

“She trusted you! She trusted all of you! She was looking for help!”

Crystal rolls her eyes. “Didn’t you hear? Nobody can help us. We’re alone in the ocean!”

Dick seethes. “You’re useless,” he hisses, looking around at the group. Anger boils inside him, rising up his throat. On the other side of the room, he sees JT looking at him with wide, alarmed eyes.  _ Everyone  _ is looking at him. No one is talking anymore. 

“You’re all idiots!” he says loudly. “Catalina was a horrible person, just like Jack and Roman!”

Catalina fixes him with an icy stare. “Quit it, dipstick!” she snaps. “Jealous much? If you want attention so bad, why don’t you try suicide too?”

His stomach clenches.  _ Murderer.  _

“They didn’t kill themselves!” he blurts out. “I killed them!”

Another long moment of silence. His heart is a drum in his throat; his eyes keep flickering around the room. To Crystal. To the doors. To JT, who stares at him with a warning in his eyes.

Then Crystal starts laughing, and everyone else is too. 

“God!” she exclaims, still cackling. “Some people will say  _ anything  _ if they think it’ll make them popular.” 

Fury and shame rear their ugly heads inside him. Dick grabs his bag and hurries out the doors as laughter echoes in his ears. 

At the last moment, he remembers:  _ Harley.  _

The door to the girl’s bathroom is open. Inside he can hear the sound of quiet sobs, the clattering of pills against plastic. 

_ No.  _

Without thinking, he races inside and wrenches the pill bottle out of Harley’s hands. She whimpers in protest, grabbing at the bottle, but he holds it out of reach. 

“Harley,” he says. “Harley,  _ stop.  _ You don’t want to do this.” __

“Suicide is a private thing!” she cries, swiping again for the bottle. A miss. With a final sigh, she leans back against one of the stalls and takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Dickie. I don’t know—what with the things people were saying—”

“Stop,” Dick says again. “Harley, don’t apologize.”

“But everything sucks!”

“If you were happy all the time, you wouldn’t be human. You’d be a game show host.” Taking a deep breath, he tucks the bottle in his pocket, feeling the soft weight slide down his thigh. “I’m so sorry about the things people said.”

“Yeah.” Harley sniffs. “I’m sorry for bringing you to Jack and Roman. I didn’t think they would do nothing, ya know?”

He thinks of Jack’s wide, empty eyes. The blood-stained dirt. His gut twists into a knot. “I guess we’re all in our own little boats,” he mutters. 

Out of the blue she giggles, startling him. “You’re pretty good at this. Ya know. Talking people down.”

“Oh. Um, you’re welcome.”

Harley smiles, but her expression quickly falls. “Wish you coulda been there for Cat,” she mumbles. 

Dick chews his lip and thinks about the pills in his pocket.


	7. Meant To Be Yours

_November 12, 1989_

Dick sits at the edge of JT’s bed, twisting his fingers together. JT has the radio on too loud, and he turns it up even higher when he hears the opening sounds of “Blue Monday” by New Order. There’s not much to hear over the sound of the synth.

“You’re a genius,” JT says, sitting down next to Dick. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to Dick, then puts them all away when Dick ignores him. “Had me worried there with your little confession, but fuck me if that didn’t turn out good. Best way to hide, right?” 

“I wasn’t trying to hide,” Dick mutters.

“What’s that?”

Dick reaches for the radio and slides the volume to almost-mute. “I wasn’t _trying_ to _hide.”_

JT shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “But why’d you have to fuck with Harley? One more dead Heather is a good thing.” 

“She’s my friend,” Dick says.

“She sold you out to Jack and Roman.” 

Dick stares.

“Fine.” JT rolls his eyes. “If she’s such a good _friend,_ why let Crystal live? That bitch was gonna let Harley die. You know, nothing ever changes unless—”

“Stop,” Dick says sharply. Heat rises in his face. “We’re not ‘changing’ anything.” 

“So it doesn’t bother you that Crystal walks free, spreading the same old evil in the same old ways—” 

“You promised.” 

“Stop interrupting me.” 

_“God damn it!”_ Dick hisses, jumping to his feet. “You promised, JT. You _promised!”_

JT looks up at him, digging his fingers into his tousled bedspread. He doesn’t look angry. It’s almost as if he’s…disappointed. 

“Jesus,” says a voice from the doorway. Willis studies the two of them, taking a long drag from a cigarette. He looks like he hasn’t shaven in weeks. “What’s with the faces? You two playing grab-ass or something?” 

“What do you want, _dad?”_ JT asks.

Willis blows a cloud of smoke into the room. “Take that earring out, kid. Makes you look like a fag.” 

Dick stiffens. On the bed, JT’s face is white and hard as stone. Mechanically, he reaches up and removes his earring, tossing it to the side. 

“Anyway,” Willis continues, oblivious. “Just did my first job with the demolition company. Looks like I’ll keep blowing up buildings ‘n shit, long as there’s shit to blow up.” 

“That’s…good,” Dick says. 

Willis ignores him. “Packed the upper floors with thermals and set off the whole thing with a Norwegian in the boiler room. _Kaboom._ Real shit. Almost makes me glad we left New York. Fucking New York.”

“Fucking New York,” JT echoes, as if on autopilot. 

Grinning with too many teeth, Willis says, “Anyway, I’ll be out getting fuck-faced. Don’t shoot any bastards until I get back, ‘kay?” 

JT holds an imaginary gun to his temple, sets it off with the _pop_ of his tongue. It doesn’t get a reaction. Willis is already gone, leaving behind a queasiness that makes its way down Dick’s throat. 

“Fuck,” JT mutters. “You’d think he’d blink at least.” 

“Where’s the gun?” Dick asks. 

JT mimes shooting him, then grins. “What does that matter?” 

“Where’s the fucking gun, JT?” 

“Look,” JT says, his smile falling from his face. He reaches into his nightstand and pulls out the pistol, extending it toward Dick. “Dear Old Dad was just joking. So I shot one of his whiskey bottles in the backyard. It’s funny.”

Dick doesn’t take it from him. “It’s _not_ funny.” 

“Jesus, Dick. Grow a sense of humor.” 

“You shouldn’t have it. It’s—it’s a _murder_ weapon.” Dick shakes his head, stepping away. “What happened to being normal?” 

JT shrugs, tossing the gun back into the drawer. The sound of it hitting the wood makes Dick flinch. “Look,” he says. “It’s a dangerous world. Especially for _fags_ like us.” 

“I was _fine,”_ Dick snaps. “Everything was _fine_ until you came around and started killing people!” 

“Oh really?” JT laughs. “That’s cute. You really expect me to believe our school wasn’t full of scumbags from day one?” 

Sighing in frustration, Dick drags his hands down his face. “It was getting better. I was gonna make it better!” 

“Two assholes beat you senseless in the cemetery. For _fun._ ” 

“I was gonna get out!” Dick can’t control himself anymore; his words are as hot as his face, his chest. “I was gonna leave this shithole a little better than I found it. Because that’s the best we can do, JT! We change what we can, and then we leave!” 

JT flies to his feet. “And then what?” he asks angrily. “You think things are better outside of Gotham? Like I said, _Dick,_ it’s a dangerous world out there!” 

Dick nods, jaw tensing. “Yeah, because of _you,_ ” he snaps, grabbing his coat from the floor. 

“Dick—”

“Don’t call me. Don’t talk to me.”

 _“_ Wait. Dick—”

“We’re over, JT,” Dick says, heading for the front door. 

“Dick!” A hand grabs his wrist, holding tight. JT’s sea green eyes are wide and trembling. “I—I love you,” he says. “Please, don’t leave.” 

Dick yanks his arm from JT’s grasp. “Goodbye, JT,” he says sharply, and slams the door behind him. 

He makes it all the way to the bus stop before he starts to cry. 

***

Harley sits with him on top of the bleachers, watching the cross-country team run in circles around the tracks. She’s smoking and talking non-stop, going on about so-and-so who did such-and-such, but Dick can’t pay much attention. His whole body hurts, as if he’s the one who’s been running six-minute miles for who knows how long. 

Too tired to talk to Harley. Too afraid to talk to anyone else. Too much of an asshole to ever look Babs in the eyes again. 

He thinks about the pills he took from Harley, stuffed in a shoebox at the back of his closet. The thought lingers for too long before fading. 

But Harley keeps talking, so he tries to focus on that. 

_Something something JT…_

Dick glances around the football field, as if the mention of JT’s name could summon him from thin air. “Wait, what?” he asks. 

Harley gives him a look. “I said, I haven’t seen JT around lately.” 

“He’s around.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Harley takes a drag of the cigarette, then offers it to Dick. 

Fuck it. 

He can only manage a small pull before coughing out smoke. “Damn,” he mutters.

Harley smiles. “God, Dickie. _Just say no_ much?” 

“Worth a shot.”

The creak of metal directs their attention to the stairwell. _“God,”_ Crystal moans, plopping herself down beside them. She pulls out her compact mirror and begins to touch up her lipstick. “It’s taken me _forever_ to find you two. What happened to vegging at my place after eighth period?” 

“We were avoiding you,” Dick says. 

Crystal rolls her eyes, dabbing at the corner of her mouth.

“What you did to me sucked,” Harley says. “I don’t have to—”

“Fine, we’ll skip the foreplay.” Crystal reaches into her bag and pulls out a clipboard. “Sign this. Go on, sign it.” 

Harley sighs. Hesitantly, she pulls out a pen and writes her name at the bottom of the sheet. 

“Wait,” Dick says. “What is this?”

Crystal snatches the clipboard back from Harley. “A petition,” she says. “We wanna have MTV throw a phat blowout to help raise suicide awareness. I got everybody to sign, obviously. Gonna make an inspirational speech or some shit at the pep rally tonight.” 

“The pep rally,” Dick repeats.

“No duh the pep rally” Crystal rolls her eyes. “Did you eat a brain tumor for breakfast?”

Huh. He had forgotten about that. No surprise there—he can’t even remember what he had for lunch, or if he had eaten anything at all. 

In any case, the idea of a pep rally makes his stomach churn. 

“Barf,” Dick says, wrinkling his nose. “Count me out.” 

Crystal scoffs. “What’s your damage? It was your boyfriend’s idea.” 

The blood leaves his face. “You mean, JT?” he asks. 

“No duh. He made up the signature sheet and everything.” 

Swearing, Dick snatches the clipboard from her hands, flips through the pages of signatures. “I don’t know what he’s up to,” he says, shoving the clipboard back into Crystal’s arms, “but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll throw this shit away.” 

“What’s with the bitching? He fuck you without a condom or something?” 

“Crystal!” Harley shrieks.

She laughs. “God. So sensitive. Whatever. I’ll just fake your signature like I did with Barbara Gordo.” Another bout of laughter. “She’s in no shape to sign _anything_ after last night.” 

“Wait.” Dick licks his lips, ignoring the ice that settles into his bones. “What—what happened last night?”

Crystal gathers her things and stands, sighing to rid herself of any residual laughter. “It was on the radio. She made the bathtub bloody, if you know what I mean. Left a suicide not in her dad’s patrol car.” 

The words hit him with the force of a bullet. Dick blinks, heart a hammer in his throat, trying and failing to come up with the words to say. _It’s not true,_ he thinks. It can’t be true, because Babs is his friend, and he didn’t mean to hurt her, didn’t want to hurt her, and _oh god it’s his fault._

At last he forces out, “She’s not—”

“No,” Crystal says casually. “Heard she’s in the E.R. with tampons in her veins. Just another geek trying to imitate the popular people and failing miserably.”

Dick stands and starts to run. 

“Hey! Where ya going?” Harley calls, but he can’t respond, can’t even look over his shoulder. His heart is beating faster and faster, and the eyes on his back pierce his skin, and he can’t breathe, and he can’t even see.

His run turns into a sprint.

Keep it together. He just needs to keep it together until he can get to the hospital. Then he can confess everything to Babs and let her know that it’s _all his fault._

If only he hadn’t let Catalina take him under her wing. If only he hadn’t gone out with JT. If only he had given Catalina the right mug. If only he had seen through JT’s lies. If only he hadn’t thrown Babs aside. If only he could have been happy with the way things were. 

Dick races down the streets of Gotham, wind whipping his hair into a frenzy. Everything is a blur. He only knows he’s crossing streets because angry drivers honk when he sprints into their paths. _My fault,_ he thinks. _All my fault._

His lungs are on fire by the time he bursts through the hospital doors. Doesn’t matter that people are watching him—all he knows is that the front desk is _right there_ and Babs is _so close._

“Barbara Gordon,” he gasps at the front desk attendant. So many people are watching him, the wheezing boy who looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Um…” 

“Please. I have to see her. I have to—I have to talk to her.” 

The attendant frowns. “Are you family?” she asks.

“No, but—”

“Family only.”

_“Please!”_

“Family only,” the attendant says again. 

Dick swears, pressing his palms into his eyes. _I’m so sorry, Babs,_ he thinks, swallowing the lump in his throat. _Everything is my fault._

“Are you okay?” someone asks him. 

He drops his hands, wipes the wetness on the front of his shirt. “Yeah,” Dick lies. He doesn’t have the energy to work up a smile. “I’ve got to—I’ve got to go.” 

And then he’s running again. 

It’s almost seven by the time he’s bursting through the front door of the manor, and the sky has gone from orange to purple. Most everything is in shadow. 

“Dick?” Bruce asks. “Where have you been?”

Dick shakes his head, unable to reply. His eyes dart frantically from one dark corner to the next, as if something had tucked itself away in the black. _What am I doing? What_ am _I doing?_

“I was worried sick,” Bruce says. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No.” 

It’s clear that Bruce doesn’t believe him. “Your friend JT stopped by,” he says, and Dick flinches. “He left something for me to give to you.” 

“What did…what did he leave?” 

“I put it on your bed,” Bruce replies. “I thought maybe we could talk about—Dick? Dick!” 

The sound of his voice carries up the stairs as Dick runs toward his room. His legs cry out beneath him, threatening to turn to jelly. Just a little farther. Just a little farther. It can’t be that bad, it can’t be that bad, it can’t be—

He slams his bedroom door behind him and all but dives for the package on his bed. His nails tear through the thin brown paper, ripping it open until he’s faced with his copy of _Catcher in the Rye._

 _No,_ he thinks, remembering. Quickly he flips through the book, reads the words that look like his, but aren’t. JT has his handwriting down cold. 

_I don’t want to live anymore._

_Why can’t it end.?_

_…the only thing I’d really like to be…_

_…dump me in the river or something…_

_People are always ruining things for you._

_People never notice anything._

There’s no heat left in the room. Maybe Dick is dead already. His heart beats so fast it might as well not be beating at all. And he can’t think, can’t think at all, because the only thing in his head is a single word, appearing over and over and over again. 

_Hide._

The book falls from his hands. Dick doesn’t hear it thud. Like a wild animal he runs around his room, searching for a place to hide, wrenching his limbs with each frantic move of his body. Finally he throws himself into the closet, shuts the door, and flips the lock. 

In the darkness, his quick breaths are loud as thunder. Dick pulls his knees into his chest and squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the cool wall press against his spine. The closet smells like dust and cotton. His face is wet. 

“One,” Dick whispers, rocking back and forth as he clutches his knees. “Two. Three. Four.”

_JT wouldn’t. He wouldn’t._

“Nine. Ten. Eleven.” 

Glass rattles. Dick’s eyes fly open, then squeeze shut again. He hears more rattling, then a squeak as his window is pulled open. 

He can taste his heartbeat on his tongue.

“Knock knock!” JT says, laughter touching his words. “Sorry to come in through the window. Dreadful etiquette, I know.” 

A moment passes in silence. Dick bites down on his knuckles, blinking away the heat in his eyes. Finally, he says, “Get out of my home.” 

“Hiding in the closet?” JT laughs, then tries to open the door. “C’mon, Dick. Unlock the door. I wanna show you something.” 

“I’ll scream,” Dick says. “I’ll scream, and Bruce will call the police.”

“Oh, cut it with the dramatics. I’m not here to hurt you. So maybe I got a little mad and vandalized some Salinger.”

“You _forged_ my _suicide_ note.” 

“You say tomayto, I say tomahto.” The door handle rattles, and JT laughs again. “You threw me away, Dick! What was I supposed to do?” 

“You’re a psycho!” 

Something slams into the door. The crack sends a lightning bolt up Dick’s spine. “That’s not you talking, beautiful,” JT says, voice petulant. “It’s not your fault. Those assholes at school, they turned you against me. They don’t want us together. No one wants us together.” 

Dick presses his spine into the back wall of the closet, watching the shadows JT’s shoes beneath the door. “Just leave me alone,” he says. 

“Leave you alone? Leave you alone?” JT laughs again. “You left me and I fell apart. I’m _never_ letting you go again.” 

“JT—” 

“But that’s okay.” The handle rattles, more violently this time. The hinges squeak “All is forgiven, baby! Come out and get dressed! You’re my date to the pep rally tonight!”

Dick feels the blood leave his face. “What? Why?”

That laughter, that darkly chipper laughter. “Our classmates thought they were signing a petition! You gotta come out here and see what they really signed.” 

“What did you _do?_ ” 

“Listen.” There’s a sudden silence, then a rustling of paper. _“We the students of Gotham High will die. Today. Our burning bodies will be the ultimate protest to a society that degrades us. Fuck you all. Goodbye._ Not exactly subtle, but neither is blowing up a school. _”_

Dick freezes. “No,” he forces out. “This is…this is _wrong._ You’re insane. You’re lying.”

“Can’t you picture it? Talk about a suicide pact! When our school explodes, it’s going to be the kind of thing that infects a _generation._ A Woodstock for the 80s. We could roast marshmallows over the fire of a new world!”

 _All my fault,_ Dick thinks. _Catalina. Jack. Roman. Harley. JT. Everyone. All my fault._

JT punches the door again. Once, twice, three times. It’s clear from the sound it’s making that it won’t last long. “Come on, baby. I can’t do this alone.” 

Dick throws a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. 

“I was meant to be yours, Dick. I was meant to be yours. You can’t just leave me alone now. Just open the door, Dick.” 

A minute. He has a minute before the door gives way. Dick takes a shaky breath, tugging at his hair while his thoughts scramble into place. 

“It’s going to be okay. JT is kicking the door now, filling the closet with _booms_ that rattle around Dick’s skull. Between blows, he says, “Just come out, and we’re going to be okay. I’m all that you need, Dick. Just come out.”

Dick thinks about Harley’s pills. He scrambles blindly, fingers searching out the shoebox. 

“Dick, open the—open the door. Please. Dick!” 

Popping open the cap— _boom_ —letting the capsules scatter into the dark—

“I don’t want to fight anymore. Sure, you’re scared, but I understand! I do!” _Boom. Boom. Boom._ “Don’t make me come in there!” 

Sticking his fingers down his throat— _boom_ —until his mouth is filled with spit— _boom_ —letting it run down his face—

“I’m gonna count to three!” JT cries. “One!”

_Boom._

“Two!” 

There is no three. The door bursts open with a crash, and the closet is flooded with blinding light. Dick lies limp over the closet floor, fighting the urge to breathe. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s—

“Oh god,” JT whispers. “Dick…no…” 

Dick can feel him kneeling down next to his body, can feel the shadow of his arm stretching toward him. _Don’t move. Don’t breathe._

“Please, no. No. No. Dick!” There’s a shuffling as JT grabs the empty pill bottle, turns it around to look at the label. 

_Don’t move. Don’t breathe._

The bottle clatters to the floor. “Oh god,” JT mutters, his words warped with a frightened urgency. “Oh god. Oh god. Fuck!” 

Dick’s chest begins to burn. _Just a little longer. Just a little longer._

A hand falls on the swell of his back, and it takes all of his power not to flinch at the touch. “Don’t leave me,” JT whispers. “I can’t—I can’t do this alone. Please, Dick. I’m so sorry.” 

And for a moment, just a moment, Dick considers waking up. Coughing. Choking. Pretending that he’s going to be okay, as long as JT stays by his side and away from the school. _Don’t leave me,_ he’ll say. _Promise you won’t leave me._

But he doesn’t. 

The hand falls from his back. There’s a rustling of fabric as JT stands and lets out a shaky breath. “I’ll do it for us, Dick,” he says. “I’m gonna change the world in your memory. Then we can be together fore—”

“Dick?” Bruce shouts from the hall outside the room. “I heard a crash. Is everything alright?” 

The patter of feet over wood. The creak of the window closing. The squeak of hinges as Bruce opens the bedroom door. 

“Dick?” 

Dick sits up and wipes his face on the front of his shirt. “I’m fine, Bruce,” he says.

Bruce turns around, eyes narrowing at the state of the closet door. “What happened?”

“I fell.” 

“Are you—”

“It’s okay.” Pushing himself to his feet, Dick straightens his clothes and looks out his window. He sees only darkness. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, grabbing his sweater from the hook behind him. 

A softness falls over Bruce’s face. “Sorry for what, chum?” 

“For being a horrible person.” 

“Where are you going?” 

Dick walks quickly down the hallway, each stride longer than the last. He can hear Bruce trailing behind him. “The pep rally,” he replies, taking the stairs two at a time. 

“When will you be back?” 

“I don’t—I don’t know.” 

“Dick,” Bruce says. 

Dick pauses at the front door, feeling the cool metal of the handle beneath his palm. He takes a deep breath, then pushes it open. “Tell Alfred I said goodbye,” he says softly, and disappears into the night. 


	8. Seventeen

As he enters the school, Dick can hear the roaring from the gymnasium. Chants of _go go Gotham_ and the stomping of feet echo through the shadowy hallways. A few people linger in corners, watching him as he walks too quickly toward the sounds. Maybe they can hear his pulse. Maybe they can smell the desperation slipping off his skin. 

_They don’t deserve to die,_ Dick thinks, even as the whispers start to follow him. JT’s solution is wrong. It’s _wrong._

If anyone deserves death, it’s Dick. Every funeral, every ounce of pain, it’s all his fault. If only he hadn’t accepted Catalina’s offer. If only he hadn’t sold his soul to win her over. If only he hadn’t gone to that party. If only he hadn’t given her that mug. If he hadn’t gone to the graveyard. If only he had said something to JT. If only he hadn’t created a monster. 

No matter how fast he moves, the names chase him down. They echo in his brain like a chant, hemorrhaging inside his ears, his own personal rally. 

_Catalina. Jack. Roman. Harley. Babs. JT. Catalina. Jack. Roman. Harley. Babs. JT. Catalina. Jack. Roman. Harley. Babs. JT. JT. JT._

Dick takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. His heart beats in time with the rapid stomping and whooping from the gymnasium— _thud thud thud_ —vast and weighty in his throat. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead. Icy salt. His limbs tremble. He has sweat through his shirt. 

People keep watching him. They know. They _know._ They know _everything_ he did and are just _burning_ with the desire to tear him apart. Dick Grayson, that murderous freak. That fucking queer. He ruins everything. 

Dick shunts their stares, swallowing the heartbeat on his tongue. They’ll have what they are after soon enough. He’s nothing but a dead boy walking. 

And then he is inside the gymnasium, and the chaos becomes external. Every noise registers as a boom that pulses through his skeleton. Dick reels, placing one hand over his eyes as if he could dispel every wave of pain that enters his chest, his eyes. 

_JT,_ he thinks, when his eyes adjust. He looks for that flash of black inside the waves of color, sees only the yellow and black of Harley’s cheerleading uniform. 

“Come on, Gotham!” she shrieks. “Here we go! Here we go!” 

Dick ducks behind a cluster of people, trying to dissolve into shadow, shrink down to nothing. He can’t be seen, especially if JT is in that crowd, especially if—

“Dick?” Ms. Lance. “Oh my god. Are you okay?”

“Y—yes,” he lies. 

“Jason Todd told me you had gotten in an accident.”

A bitter taste fills Dick’s mouth. “Yeah well, he’s wrong about a lot of things.” 

“But you’re alright? You’re not hurt?” 

“I’m fine.” He licks his lips, searching for the right question to ask. _Hey, did you see JT going anywhere? Carrying a bomb or two? What’s the most explosive thing in the school?_

Ms. Lance narrows her eyes. “You look sick,” she says. “Do you want me to call your father to come and pick you up? This probably isn’t the best thing for you to do right now.” 

Dick tones out her words, eyes darting to the bright corners of the gymnasium. He thinks of the rooms in the school, the dark closets, the empty hallways. It’s got to be here somewhere. It _has_ to be. And the clock is ticking, and he can feel death catching up to them, and even now he’s running out of time—

“Ms. Lance,” he begins, “What’s under the gym?” 

“The boiler room. Why?”

_Packed the upper floors with thermals and set off the whole thing with a Norwegian in the boiler room._

“That’s it,” Dick mutters.

Ms. Lance cocks her head. “Dick? What’s going on?” 

“Can’t talk,” he replies, already heading toward the doors. His arms are hardly strong enough to push them open, hardly strong enough to stay upright when he starts to jog, run, sprint. 

The air is sweltering, but his skin is cold and clammy. _Run._ If they are still making noise in the gym, he can’t hear it. All he knows is the hallway, stretching on and on and on, like some sick cosmic trick, never letting him make it to the basement door. _Run._ And his heart is besieging his ears, and he isn’t breathing, and he can feel the touch of flame licking the back of his neck…

Dick has enough sense not to burst through the door. He takes it quietly, one hand on the icy handle, pushing gently so not to give it the chance to creak. The light is green in the basement stairwell. The air is placid and rife with unpleasant moisture. Now he only hears the hiss of steam, the clanging of pipes. 

Dick takes a deep breath, and starts slowly down the stairs. 

It’s a maze down here. Pipes and machines and thick columns covered in mold. Dick treads cautiously through the space, sweating as steam settles on his skin and soaks into his clothes. _JT,_ he almost whispers, but then he remembers that there’s no more reasoning, not anymore. 

He grabs the first heavy thing he finds. A crowbar. His hand trembles around the steel, barely able to keep the tip from scraping over the ground. Dick swallows, blinking away the sweat that falls into his eyes. One step. Another. A lightbulb flickers. The sounds he hears are meaningless. 

Dick closes his eyes and takes a slow, steady breath. The crowbar grows heavier by the moment. 

_Don’t make me use it,_ he thinks, opening his eyes. _I don’t want to hurt you._

He rounds a corner, freezes. JT stands not ten feet from him, eyeing the pounding generators in front of them. At his feet is a pack of red, covered in wires and blinking lights. His dark hair is slick with sweat. 

Dick licks his lips. “A Norweigan in the boiler room,” he says. “Just like your dad.” 

JT whirls around, eyes wide with shock. For a moment he does nothing but stare, open-mouthed and nearly trembling. Something like sadness flickers behind his eyes. Or maybe it’s fear. He’s looking at a ghost. 

“Dick,” he breathes. 

“JT.” 

The flicker disappears from his eyes, and there is nothing left. Abrupt laughter fills the room. Harsh, uncontrolled laughter. Between snorts, he says, “And here I thought you’d lost your taste for faking suicides.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Dick replies. “JT, this isn’t—this isn’t you.” 

“You’re not going to hurt me.” JT eyes the crowbar, jaw tensing. “You won’t.” 

Raising the crowbar, Dick pretends he isn’t shaking. “Step… step away from the bomb.”

JT laughs again, picking up the bomb at his feet. “This little thing? I’d hardly call it a bomb. This is to trigger the packs of thermals upstairs in the gym. Now _those_ are bombs.”

“I’m warning you.”

“Warning me?”

It happens quickly. One moment Dick is lunging—JT reaches behind his back—and the next there is a gun in Dick’s face. Dick swallows but does not move, holding onto the crowbar like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. _He won’t shoot me. He won’t. Will he?_

JT’s eyes flash with anger. “People are going to look at the ashes of Gotham High and say, there’s a school that self-destructed not because society didn’t care, but because that school _was society._ You know the only place Heathers and queers can truly get along is in heaven!” 

Dick shakes his head, unwilling to tear his gaze from JT. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, because he does not know what else to do. “JT, I’m—I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” JT’s grip loosens on the gun. His face softens, lips parting with uneven breaths as he looks into Dick’s eyes. “Sorry for making me think you killed yourself? For leaving me alone?” 

“I’m sorry for everything.” 

“I want…I want to hear you say it,” JT says.

Dick takes a deep breath, lowering the crowbar but not releasing his death-grip on the steel. “I’m sorry you think that you’re alone,” he replies softly. “I’m sorry that people hurt you, and don’t understand, and…and that they convinced you it had to be this way.” 

JT chews his lip. For a moment he says nothing, and Dick’s heart leaps— _put the gun down,_ he urges, _put the gun down_ —but then JT’s brow furrows. His finger inches toward the trigger. 

“This is the only way,” he says. 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I knew you’d come back.” A smile twitches over JT’s lips. “I knew we were meant to do this together.” 

Dick raises the crowbar. He takes a step forward, glancing at the device between them. “Give me the bomb, JT,” he says.

The gun lowers. “Hey, hey,” JT mutters, lips parted in a reassuring smile. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.” 

“Disarm the bomb.” Dick takes another step forward. “JT, I’m warning you.” 

The smile fades from JT’s face. “Don’t come any closer!” he snaps, pointing the gun at Dick’s chest. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “I don’t want to do it, but I will. I _will,_ because _I_ _have to do this!_ ” 

“Hundreds of people are going to die! Innocent people!” 

“Innocent?” JT laughs wildly. “You and I both know they’re not—” 

Dick swings with all his strength. The crowbar smacks the center of JT’s forearm, knocking the gun from his grasp. JT cries out—“Jesus _fuck!_ ” he yells, clutching his arm—but Dick can only look at the gun lying not ten feet from him. 

He lunges. 

Somehow he’s aware of the steam hissing around him, the heat, the wet. A hand grabs at his shirt, yanking him down. Dick falls. Cold cement is no cushion. But over the pain he thinks, _JT,_ and then he’s swinging the crowbar at JT’s legs. Hits a knee.

JT cries out as he hits the floor. “Fuck!” he hisses, eyes wet even as his lips are curled in anger. “Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this, Dick?” 

“You’re insane!” 

A flash of black, and the sudden blow has Dick reeling, stomach alight with pain. The crowbar clatters to the floor. But he can’t reach for it, can’t even react, because someone is already yanking him upright. 

In a violent motion JT brings his mouth to Dick’s. Teeth clash, strong hands dig into the muscles of his upper arms. Dick bites down, tastes copper. JT yelps. 

“Come on, Dick,” he gasps, blood spilling from his torn lip. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Then don’t!” 

“Then stop fighting me!” 

Head pounding, Dick dives for the bomb. There’s a sudden blow on his back—arms around his waist—and then they’re both tumbling down, crashing, groaning. Dick pushes against JT’s chest, throws a punch. Too weak.

“Stop it,” JT hisses. He struggles to push Dick back down onto the floor. His temple is bleeding. “Baby, stop it!” 

Fighting again. Dick kicks wildly, throws an elbow into JT’s jaw. They tumble over each other—rough cement tears open their skin—JT’s foot makes contact with the bomb—a digital clock clicks on— _5:00, 4:59, 4:58…_

Dick’s stomach lurches into his throat. Somehow he is aware of JT moving, shifting, reaching for the gun, and Dick knows without a doubt that _he has to reach it first._

Their fingers close around it at the same time. At once they’re wrestling for control, pushing and pulling, twisting and wrenching, and Dick shifts his grip to get a better hold, and—

_Boom._

The sound of it stuns him. Dick flies back, ears ringing, palms burning as the cement rubs them raw. He blinks wildly, trying to orient himself, trying to find the blood, the gaping hole in his body. Nothing. And the gun is on the floor, and JT is sitting upright, and his mouth is parted, but he makes no sound, and blood is dripping between his fingers…

JT’s face contorts in shock and pain. “D—Dick,” he says, and collapses. 

_No._

“JT!” Dick cries, scrambling over to his body. “JT, just listen to me, okay? It’s over, okay? We’re going to be okay. Just tell me how to disarm the bomb. JT. JT. _JT!”_

There’s no response. Blood starts to spread across the floor, hot and slow and thick. 

_3:12, 3:11, 3:10…_

Sudden tears blur Dick’s vision. _I’m sorry,_ he wants to say, but there’s no one left to listen. He’s alone, and has no one to blame but himself. There’s only one thing left to do.

The bomb is lighter than he expected. It’s easy to cradle it in his arms and run out of the school, onto the football field. The night is black and silent around him. Nothing to hear but his own ragged breaths, the steady beeping coming from the clock.

_1:46, 1:45, 1:44…_

He should put the bomb down. Put the bomb down and run. But he can’t. He _can’t._ All he can do is close his eyes and wait. 

“Smart…move.”

Dick looks. JT stands starkly in the distance before him, trembling with each fresh step. Even in the dim light, Dick can see the blood spreading over his clothes, soaking into his coat. Too much blood. How can the human body hold that much blood? 

“I…” Dick licks the dryness from his lips. “I thought…” 

“Drag the trigger bomb out here,” JT says weakly. “Far away, and…no one dies. Except you.”

“I killed people. I have to pay for that.”

JT shakes his head, winces. “Not you, me.”

“I don’t—”

“Do you love me?” JT whispers. He takes another step forward, jaw and limbs trembling. “Did you ever love me, Dick?” 

_1:01, 0:59, 0:58…_

“JT…” 

He laughs sadly, a sound cut off by a cough. “It’s okay,” he mutters. “No one ever has.”

Dick hugs the bomb against his chest. “Stay away,” he says softly, blinking away the tears in his eyes. “No one else deserves to die.”

“Give me the bomb. You have a life to live.”

“And you don’t?”

“You can still make things better,” JT says. “I’m too fucked up for that.”

“You’re not.” 

Another sad laugh. “You always were a shit liar, Dick.”

 _Stop,_ Dick tries to say, but his words fail on his tongue. JT reaches for the bomb, takes it gently from his arms. And Dick lets him. But, when JT tries to kiss him, he flinches. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Right,” JT mutters sadly, cradling the bomb in his arms. “You’re gonna want to stand back.”

“I…” 

“Little further than that. Don’t know what this thing can do.”

Dick backs away slowly, his mind fighting each step. “There’s still time,” he says at last, even though the numbers are blinking away before their eyes. “You can leave it.”

JT’s eyes are wide and wavering. “I love you, Dick,” he whispers. 

_0:08, 0:07, 0:06…_

“Wait,” Dick says, pausing in his tracks. “Wait, hold on—just let go—”

The last thing he sees is the clock hitting zero. 

***

The doctors say he’s lucky. No broken bones, no third-degree burns, only a mild concussion and some tender skin. Dick is discharged in under an hour.

After, he wanders the emergency room in a daze, unable to feel or think or reason. Dick can still smell smoke on himself, even after he scrubs his hands red in the bathroom once, twice, three times.

He wants to go home. He wants to go back to school. He wonders if anyone knows it was him. 

As Dick walks down the hallway, a team of people in white coats come racing past with IV fluid and armfulls of gauze. Only half of their words reach his ears. 

“John Doe—burns—ICU—blue—”

Dick pauses, watching the double doors swinging after their heels. For a moment he considers the possibility, his mind’s eye searching for a reason to follow them, to see or not see what could be true. The word _maybe_ rings in his ears. 

In the end, he doesn’t follow them. 

Instead he follows the signs to the Trauma Recovery Unit, then reads the names on each door until he finds the one he is looking for. No nurses are around to stop him, so he goes inside. 

“I’m sorry,” Dick says. 

Babs looks up from her book. She’s a little pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes, but she’s sitting in her chair, which must be good. Her eyes widen, then narrow, when she sees him.

“What happened to you?” she asks. 

Dick sits down on the edge of the hospital bed. “Doesn’t matter. I’m so, so sorry, Babs.” 

Her jaw tenses. “Shouldn’t you be at the pep rally?” she asks curtly.

“My date kinda blew…” He winces. “…kinda blew me off. So I was wondering maybe I could stay here with you. We can pretend we’re having a movie night. Watching something with a happy ending.” 

Babs quiets. Her fingers curl around the pages of the book, hard enough to wrinkle but not hard enough to tear. “Are there any happy endings?” she asks. 

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you—” 

“Because I’m stupid,” Dick says. He curls his knees into his chest. “Look. I can’t promise sunshine and roses, but I—I miss you.” 

Babs says nothing, so he continues.

“And I know I don’t deserve it, but if you’d let me, I’d love to have the chance to be your friend again.” He takes a shaky breath, trying not to think of anything but the here and now. “Let’s be seventeen for a while, you know?” 

“And at school?” Babs asks. “What about Crystal?”

“I’ll deal with Crystal.” He feigns a smile. “Brand new sheriff’s here in town.” 

“What happened to you?” 

“Life,” Dick replies. “But I’m gonna make it better. I have to.”

“You always say that.”

“Well, I mean it.” 

Babs puts her book down on her lap and looks up at him with tired eyes. “For what it’s worth,” she says, “I hope you do.” 

Dick smiles softly, though it weighs too much for him to maintain. Sighing, he stands, suddenly unable to sit still anymore. “I’m going to the vending machines,” he says. “Want anything?”

“Coke?”

He nods and starts off down the hall, footsteps echoing quietly across the linoleum. The loneliness is the type of chill, settling deep beneath his skin and burying itself inside his bones. He thinks of the names and of himself. He wants to believe life will get better, wants to believe things can begin anew. 

But most of all, he wants to believe it will be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> [Mori's Tumblr](https://morimaitar.tumblr.com/)  
> [Reggie's Tumblr](https://reagy-jay.tumblr.com/)


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